


Until There Comes Another

by girlsarewolves



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Awkwardness, Eventual Romance, F/M, Gen, Religious Conflict, Snow White and the Huntsman AU, The Faith of the Seven, The Old Gods - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-05
Updated: 2015-01-16
Packaged: 2017-11-28 07:07:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/671652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlsarewolves/pseuds/girlsarewolves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>12/1/15: STORY UNDER REVISION</p><p>'Queen you shall be, until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all that you hold dear.' </p><p>An ancient queen, tightening her grip on the seven kingdoms of Westeros, seeks to destroy the one person who could ruin everything. Sansa Stark, the heir to the still rebellious Northern kingdom, takes flight to try and find the means to restore her home, prompting the queen to set The Hound - a violent and bitter warrior with nothing to lose - on the princess' trail.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

* * *

_"You have a wonderful heart, my winter rose. Big and strong and fierce. Never lose it,"_ her mother had said the day before she died.  
  
Sansa dreamt of her mother's hand over her breast, the warmth leaving her lady mother's trembling fingers, and heard those words echoing in her memory when she woke. She blinked at the filtered sunlight, blurred by lingering tears.  
  
Mid-morning. She slept late again. Sansa mourned the loss of the morning songbirds; she had missed them three days in a row. No matter how hard she tried to make herself wake early, she slept later each day. Even when she went to bed before twilight.  
  
 _Your winter rose is wilting, Mother,_ she thought sorrowfully. It took pains to make herself rise. Her bones did not ache, her body did not hurt. But her soul was wearier than ever. She had seen another girl - a sweet and frightened girl her own age - leave and come back a haggard, withered old woman.  
  
For the briefest of moments, when they gathered the poor girl weeping and pleading from her cell, Sansa had seen her childhood friend, Jeyne Poole. She had remembered clutching the other girl tightly as the queen's men had dragged Jeyne from her arms, from their shared cell, only a few months after the siege. But then the memory had passed and left Sansa gasping in the present, hands clasped over her mouth. She had never seen Jeyne Poole again.  
  
That girl had been last of five brought to the cells that week; Sansa wept for them, their eyes empty and minds gone. They were her father's people.  
  
They were her people.  
  
But Sansa Stark was no longer princess of Winterfell, of the Northern lands, the heir of the First Men. She was no longer a little lady or a little wolf or a winter rose. She was only a nameless prisoner, a mysterious captive. The princess of Winterfell was long dead; slain by invaders and buried by traitors.  
  
Sansa began her daily routine by starting up a fire. The north tower had a damp chill that was growing progressively cooler each week. She prayed to the Seven, after the faith of her lady mother, and looked to her window longingly. She could not reach the window well enough to see the godswood, or any wood. The thick stone walls meant to keep her safe only kept her shut away from her father's faith, from the faith of her ancestors and people. She prayed to the Seven once more that winter was coming this time, and not another cool spell in summer.  
  
Winter had not come for almost eight years.  
  
This morning, Sansa prayed to the old gods none the less, and hoped perhaps they would be more merciful.  
  
The last winter had lasted only a few short years, long enough to take her mother, and then spring came, with Cersei Lannister at its heels. Then the summer came; long and hot, hotter than Winterfell had ever known. And worst of all, dry. Even the cool spells had brought only a few short rainstorms that barely dampened the earth for even a day. No weeks of rain, no summer snows. Thunder had rumbled and lightning had flashed across the tiny bit of sky she could glimpse from her window. But more often those storms brought wild fires and panic. Not relief.  
  
 _"Winter is coming,"_ her father often said. The words of the Royal House.  
  
"What if she somehow stops it, Father?" Sansa whispered, staring at the wisps of smoke rising from her little fire. "What if winter never comes again?"  
  
And why should she long for it, so? Only her death could come from it. Winter was part of her though, she had always believed, always been told. Part of her, and of her siblings - but they were all gone, were they not?  
  
Sansa prayed once more to the old gods, though she could not see them, nor they her. But she prayed they could hear her all the same and would answer her plea. For though winter might mean a cold, lonely death in this cell, it would also mean death for the cruel woman that had destroyed her family. And then, one day, a rebirth for Winterfell, for the North.  
  
No one from the south could prepare themselves well enough for a true winter. Let the queen and her brother freeze in the great hall.  
  
Soft chirping pulled Sansa from her dark thoughts. She turned and felt joy bloom in her chest at the sight of a red songbird perched on the bottom of her tiny window. The little bird chirped again and whistled, pecking around at the stone.  
  
Slowly and quietly, Sansa crept over and rose to her full height. Her arm lifted, fingers carefully reaching towards the beautiful creature. _I missed you and your friends this morning. Did you know that? Did you come back to bring me a bit of cheer?_  
  
The bird stared at her, head tilting one way and then the other. Its wings fluttered when her fingertips brushed over its feathers, but it did not shy away or take flight. The bird chirped again, a sweet and happy tune, while Sansa lightly pet it.  
  
Behind her, outside of her cell, the sound of the door to the north tower opening startled Sansa and the songbird.  
  
Someone was coming.  
  
Frightened, Sansa started to pull her hand back inside. She cast a longing look at the songbird as it spread its wings. But then the bird pecked at something, something just below the window sill, something Sansa could not see - and then the bird was gone, flying fast away. Sansa watched the red bird disappear into the sky and stretched her hand out of the window, fingers desperately feeling around. For something out of place, for... for any thing, some instinct she had not felt in years telling her not to lose hope. Her fingers brushed over something rough, rusted, and out of place.  
  
Her heart leapt into her throat.

* * *

The expression 'good things come to those who wait' had never appealed to Meryn Trant. He was not one for waiting. Fortunately he was not an excessively greedy man. He liked recognition, status, and violence. The perfect sort of man for the queen's personal guard, second only to the queen's brother.  
  
Though _he_ was a pompous, golden shit.  
  
But there was one thing Trant had set his eyes on and wanted, one thing he couldn't have. Until that day, when he had been given the order to fetch the Stark princess from her cell in the north tower.  
  
Princess Sansa Stark, presumed dead but hidden away where no one - not even the queen's own men - could reach her, was a simpering, little cunt. She had tried to escape the night of her father's murder and almost had - but he had reached her before she could, grabbing the squealing child from a would be rescuer. She had fought back, and Trant still bore three jagged scars down his cheek where her fingernails had ripped into him.  
  
The Starks were practically wildlings, even their little princesses.  
  
Meryn Trant had wanted to repay that Stark bitch for seven years. For the murmurs and laughter and jeers - that he'd put an end to after a while, when he'd grown so sick of the mocking he'd up and slit the throat of the last man to goad him for being maimed by a 'wee girlchild in a fancy skirt.' Until that morning, she had been off limits though, to everyone.  
  
But that morning the queen had demanded the princess be brought to her, and Meryn Trant was the man sent to fetch the girl.  
  
If he was careful, the queen would never know anything had happened to the girl. He knew how to hurt without leaving a mark, least on the places the queen would be looking.  
  
When Trant reached her cell in the north tower, the princess was on her cot. Still asleep, still a lazy, royal cunt even in captivity. He sneered at her with her back to the door; she was making it too easy. He carefully unlocked her cell, trying to keep the keys from rattling too much or her door from creaking too loudly.  
  
The princess didn't stir.  
  
Meryn crept over to the cot and grabbed her arm with one hand, the other moving to cover her mouth as he rolled her over.  
  
But the princess wasn't sleeping. Her eyes were wide open, and suddenly her hand flew towards him. A familiar pain flared on one side of his face as something tore through his skin from temple to cheek, dangerously close to his eye.  
  
The man shouted in pain as blood poured down his face and neck, getting into his eye. He reached for the girl, half-blind, but the princess shoved him and used her weapon again, stabbing him in the shoulder. He fell back as she ran out of the cell. He heard the rattle of the keys, the click of the lock.  
  
Meryn pulled the weapon - a long, bent, rusted nail - from his shoulder and lunged, reaching through the bars to try and grab the royal bitch who had now fucked up both sides of his face. But the princess was already too far gone, fleeing towards the stairway, taking the keys with her. The sight of her disappear caused Meryn Trant to feel something he had not in a long time; fear.  
  
If the princess got away, the queen would do far, far worse to him.  
  
 _"Guards!!"_

* * *

Sansa ran as fast as she could, hardly paying attention to where she was going. She might have been trapped in a cell for seven years, but Winterfell was her home. She knew every hall, every corridor. She turned down corners she knew the guards would not think to look, found passageways the queen's men would not come through if they heard Meryn Trant's shouts.  
  
Her father had told her when she was young to acquaint herself with her home; learn every twist and turn until she could find her way to every room blindfolded. Sansa had - on days when she wandered alone with her thoughts, in afternoons when she would chase after Arya and Bran - and it had paid off. She closed her eyes when the winding stairs made her dizzy, pretended she was still nine, and kept running.  
  
The courtyard was desolate when she reached it. It had never been a bright source of cheer, but there were no handmaidens gossiping by the well, no soldiers conversing, no familiarity, no real life at all. But there were the queen's knights, hard and vicious men, and a blacksmith - not Mikken, no, but one of the queen's choosing, who knew how to fashion the cruel weapons Sansa had briefly seen the queen's knights use on her father's men.  
  
Sansa would be seen the moment she stepped out there. Already she could hear shouting, sounds of alarm, and the courtyard was becoming alive with men out to take her to Cersei.  
  
A familiar tune sounded amidst the clang and clatter. Sansa looked and saw her red songbird fluttering about the sewage drain. It was large enough, it might even be close enough. Once upon a time Sansa Stark would have sooner turned back then crawl through sewage. Strong and fierce, she heard her mother whisper. Strong and fierce.  
  
 _I am a Stark. I can be brave._ Sansa ran towards the drain and dove in.  
  
Men shouted and ran towards her as she disappeared into the foul smelling sewer. Fingers grabbed at her and missed - barely - and the relief that followed her fear helped her ignore the bile in her throat at the stench surrounding her. One man tried to crawl in after but could not fit. He swore at her, but Sansa never once looked back.  
  
It would not take men long to find where she would come out from, but she heard the river and ran again, ran through the waste water and ignored the rats crawling about her. If she moved fast she could get to the Wolfswood before the queen's men caught up with her. If she could get into the Wolfswood, she could get away from them, at least for a time.  
  
The Wolfswood would protect her; she was a Stark. She had to be safe there.  
  
Sunlight blinded her when she emerged from the sewer, stumbling towards the river. Clouds slowly swept across the sky, blocking and unblocking the brightness of the day. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust, but Sansa kept moving.  
  
It did not take her long to find the spot where the river was most shallow and at its calmest. She waded in until the water was waist high and then began to swim. She could hear dogs in the distance, the thunder of hooves. She swam faster, ignoring how quickly her arms began to ache, how easily her lungs started to burn with exertion. It felt like salvation when she at last reached the other side, climbing from the water on her hands and knees.  
  
Behind her the dogs and horses and their riders were nearing. There was no time to rest, there was no salvation yet.  
  
Ahead of her, the Wolfswood beckoned, only yards away. A thick, seemingly endless forest where wolves thrived and the old gods were said to be always watching. There were villages within the woods, spread out and hard to find, but shreds of hope none the less. They were loyal to her father once; perhaps they would be loyal to her.  
  
 _If I reach them alive,_ she thought as she shivered, wet and chilled.  
  
The barking of dogs was close, perhaps just across the river, the animals announcing they had found her. Their masters were nearing, too.  
  
 _I am a Stark, the last Stark. I am a direwolf._  
  
Above her, a red songbird whistled and flew into the woods. Sansa ran after it.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a story that I wrote the first chapter for last year after seeing SWATH in theaters. But as I live in a beach city, and summer is a madhouse from tourism, my time and energy and inspiration quickly died. However, I felt so strongly about this idea that I went back, wrote up my notes from scratch, revised this chapter, and am dedicating my writing time to working on this fic. Updates may be sporadic; I am hoping to build momentum up and get several chapters written while it's still wintertime, but I won't make any promises. 
> 
> There's going to be a lot of mashing of SWATH and ASOIAF/GOT. Also, some characters' descriptions will be based more on the tv series than the book series (most notably Sandor), but for the most part this is more book series than tv show. There will be a lot of fantasy and religious elements. I have come to realize it will probably be a long fic. But I am grateful to any who come on the ride with me. Feedback and constructive criticism is welcome and greatly appreciated. 
> 
> Many thanks to my honorary little sisters Sandra, Rhiannon, and Emily, as well as my husband, Rob, for reading my notes or listening to me ramble or letting me use you for a wall to bounce ideas off of. ;)


	2. Two

"Forgive me, your grace," Meryn Trant blubbered once more from his knees before her. Blood covered one side of his face where a fresh gash was torn. It was longer, deeper, and nastier than the three scars along the other side of his face.  
  
The Stark girl had gotten better, it seemed.  
  
"And what, Ser Meryn, should I forgive you for? For letting your pride and anger come before your queen's demands? Or for once again letting a girl, a _child_ , get the better of you?" Cersei ground her teeth together, her lips pursed; she was taught with rage - but also the inklings of fear.  
  
 _That girl is more of a threat now than she was this morning._  
  
Trant was sweating and red-faced as he again tried to beg her forgiveness and explain his actions.  
  
Cersei sneered in disgust and moved her hand to signal Jaime. Her brother moved to Trant and lifted the fool up to his feet as she rose from the throne. "You were a fool to let that girl get the better of you. But I was a fool to have thought you above your pride. So I forgive you, Ser Meryn, for your moment of weakness." Cersei placed her fingertips on Trant's armor, just over where his heart hammered frantically in his chest. "But what I cannot forgive, is making your queen look a fool."  
  
Trant stammered incoherently, begging once more for his life, but Cersei could not hear him over the sound of his heartbeat. It grew louder in her ears; all other sounds were drowned out as she focused. Soon Trant's babbling was silent, his mouth moving but nothing coming out. She could not hear Trant struggling against Jaime - no, only her heartbeat and Meryn's.  
  
A dull ache began to throb in her head and traveled down to her fingertips, steadily growing more acute as her focus increased. But it was only seconds before the fool's heart burst, and then Trant hit the ground. A trickle of blood fell from the corner of Ser Meryn's mouth.  
  
Cersei gasped as sound returned to her, and the throbbing in her head remained. She would have fallen if not for Jaime. Her brother's arms caught her, steadied her, and she quickly righted herself before leveling her gaze at the guards. "Leave us."  
  
The guards filed out until the throne room was empty except for her and her brother. Then, and only then, did she let herself lean into Jaime's embrace, her body all but robbed of her anger and tension. She could feel her skin aging, wrinkling and sagging; the magic she had used already nibbling away at her.  
  
Jaime helped her around the throne in the great hall and into a room beyond it, a room Cersei had barred all from entering save Jaime.  
  
"I don't think that little stunt was entirely necessary." Her brother continued to support her as she walked towards the large, circular, gold mirror hanging from the great stone wall. "You tax yourself too often, Cersei."  
  
"It was necessary." She pulled herself from his embrace as she stood before the mirror. She made herself stand tall and proud even as the horror of the extent of the damage killing Trant had done to her stared back, tinted golden. "If the Stark girl had grabbed his dagger or his sword, she might have taken the whole kingdom back. He let her get away! He let her make a fool of him, and of me." She turned from the mirror, rage filling her once more. "If the rebellion hears that Sansa Stark is not only alive but on the run, what then? Their refusal to submit will on grow worse, and their numbers will spread."  
  
"You should have sent me to fetch the girl," Jaime stated - as if hindsight and should haves could offer any help by that moment.  
  
Cersei looked back to her mirror. She let Jaime embrace her from behind, allowed herself to lean into him for strength for a few sweet minutes. "You're right. I should have. But I didn't, and she's out there - and word will spread!"  
  
"That one of your prisoners escaped, just a simple farmer girl like all the others! You have killed everyone who knew Sansa Stark was alive, and all the subjects in Winterfell are too afraid to spread rumors!"  
  
"And what if they're not?!" Cersei spun around, breaking free of her brother's grasp. Her crown felt heavier, her shoulders weak, her insides all coiled up. "I needed Sansa Stark's heart in my hands, beating and bleeding, and now she's running free in the Wolfswood!"  
  
Her brother shifted away from her for a moment. "She's only a girl, Cersei."  
  
For a moment Cersei did not understand what Jaime meant. But she remembered similar words, spoken from her own lips. She remembered a beautiful boy, pale and cold where he lay, with golden blond hair. She remembered cursing and screaming and crying - and eventually praying. But it did her no good, and her son had never drawn another breath. But there had been whispers, murmurs of his cruel nature. She knew what they thought of him; that he was a bastard and a monstrous one at that. _"But he was only a boy,"_ she had whispered defiantly to herself.  
  
"Even children can be dangerous," Cersei whispered now, back in the present once more. "This one more so than others. I should have sent you to fetch her, you were right." The queen raised her head and approached her mirror. She could feel the power emanating from it; a power only she knew. "But now I need you to fetch someone else for me. Find The Hound. Bring him here. Tell him I will give him what he wants if he comes to me."  
  
Jaime met her reflection's gaze. "Are you certain?"  
  
"Clegane has become a hunter since leaving us. And he is not afraid to get his hands dirty. I can make him loyal again, and he will find the Stark girl for me. Oh, and Jaime," Cersei glanced over her shoulder at her twin. "Have the guards fetch a few milkmaids."

* * *

Afternoon was waning into evening - and with the approaching dark came the cold. Though Sansa felt chilled to the bone, she knew that by nightfall the true cold would be upon her. Her legs ached, and her skin was covered in gooseflesh. Her hair no longer dripped icy cold droplets of water onto her clothes and skin, but she was still damp.  
  
 _A little farther. I cannot make a fire until I am safe. If they see, I am damned._  
  
She had not heard her pursuers for what could have been minutes or hours, but that did not mean she was safe. Her lungs burned inside her chest while her heart hammered so loudly she thought it had moved from her chest to her skull if not for the pounding beneath her left breast.  
  
The Wolfswood was vast; easy to get lost in and hopefully easy to lose those hunting her. But where was she going? What if she had turned around during the hours since she had entered the forest and would soon emerge in the clearing, so close to Winterfell and the queen's power?  
  
 _I have not turned around. I am heading towards the setting sun still; I am heading west. Away from Winterfell._  
  
Sansa felt her empty stomach knot up with sadness. Once upon a time, Winterfell had been home and sanctuary. But that had been before Cersei Lannister had preyed upon her father's weakness over losing the true queen, Sansa's strong, lady mother. Oh, but she had fallen for the act, had she not? While Arya had shown only hatred and distrust to the mysterious woman rescued from the enemy, Sansa and her father had believed her. Robb had been wary, but had tried to play mediator between the sisters, while Bran had stayed silent, and Rickon had been too young to truly understand.  
  
 _They're all gone, and Winterfell is now a Southron queen's stronghold; my own home turned into my prison._  
  
Tears pricked at her eyes, but Sansa wiped at them furiously. She would not cry. She would be strong; like Queen Catelyn Stark before her. She had to be strong for her father and her siblings, gone, all gone.  
  
 _I will find my way to someone loyal to my father. There must still be those who would rise up against the queen, who would fight to reclaim Winterfell and the North._ Sansa did not know who had survived the queen's takeover, or who would be brave enough to fight in her father's name should they know that the Starks had not been wiped out. She only knew that there had to be someone; perhaps the Manderlys or the Umbers or the Karstarks. Maybe the Mormonts - Bear Island was Northwest through the Wolfswood. They might have been able to hold off Cersei's forces.  
  
But then they might also have easily fallen, for the inhabitants of Bear Island relied heavily on trade to survive. And the gods only knew if the queen had enough ships to surrounded the small island. Perhaps it had been an effortless takeover.  
  
Sansa felt lost already and far too cold. Her second wind was fading, and her legs finally gave out as the reality of her situation truly sunk in. She did not know where to go. She did not know her way through the Wolfswood, and while she may find villages willing to provide her with shelter and safety, they would unlikely be willing to follow her into a war. She knew nothing of what had happened to her father's realm during her years in the tower.  
  
Truth be told, Sansa was not even certain how long it had been since the night her family was killed, the night Cersei had ordered her locked away in the tower, with Jeyne Poole and a few other young girls. She thought it was seven, maybe eight. She had tried to keep track of time as it passed, but she could not truly be certain.  
  
If it had been seven years, though... _That would make me eighteen. A woman now._  
  
The thought made her shudder. Though she had grown, her breasts swelling and her body rising tall and her moon blood a horribly bloody mess to deal with, Sansa felt eleven and ages older all at once. A woman grown, and yet she felt somewhere between girlchild and withered maid. Too old for her bones, too young for what her eyes had seen.  
  
Sansa sat crumpled at the base of an oak, desolate and lost. She was a woman now, and the rightful heir to Winterfell, to the kingdom of the North, but her kingdom was dust and ruins, her father's bannermen possibly now queen's men.  
  
Where was she to go? What was she to do?  
  
Howling echoed in the distance. A chorus of howls, in fact. The sunlight had almost disappeared completely below the treetops, and the wolf packs were rousing.  
  
Sansa rose to her feet though she shivered and ached. She walked forward. There was nothing to do but press onward if she wanted to live. And she desperately wanted to live. So Sansa walked despite the pain in her legs and the throbbing in her feet.  
  
The howling grew louder - nearer? - and more voices joined in. Perhaps they would frighten off her pursuers? But they frightened her as well.  
  
Something white in the distance caught her eye. Sansa looked ahead at the blur moving through the trees. The howling seemed to be getting closer - or was that barking? Had the dogs found her, their masters following right behind? She started to walk faster towards the movement ahead, stumbling in the growing gloom. But urgency took hold, and she began to run towards the white blur.  
  
It was large. Sansa thought it a horse at first. She ran after it, some instinct telling her, 'Follow', and so she followed. The white creature was not a horse though, she could tell as she began to close in. And then it darted, to her right, and Sansa almost tripped over a tree root in her haste to keep up.  
  
The animal was gone. Sansa rose and ran again, in the direction it had darted. She heard the howling - yes, it was howling now, for certain - in the distance. Not quite so near; still, she did not stop running, not until this new burst of energy began to fade. By then it was too dark to see far past her outstretched arms.  
  
It was cold and well into the night. So Sansa waited until the moon rose a little higher, silvery, filtered light illuminating the woods enough for her to find branches and twigs and moss, and rocks that would hopefully do well enough to spark a fire.  
  
 _Please,_ she prayed, to the old gods and the new, _keep me safe through the night_.  
  
In the darkness of the branches and leaves swaying above her, she could hear the soft chirping of a songbird. But soon after there were only the hoots of owls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, I think I enjoy killing Meryn Trant off a wee bit too much in my fics. I blame the tv series.
> 
> This was my first time writing Cersei and Jaime, and it's probably obvious. I tried hard to keep them IC while also fitting this new setting. More details of their past will be explored as the story progresses. I would love feedback on this chapter and especially their scene. Constructive criticism is welcome! 
> 
> Many thanks to Sandra and Rhiannon for letting me rambling on and on to them, and to Sandra for reading this chapter and helping my confidence. :) Next chapter we meet Sandor, I promise!


	3. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING for mentions of rape, abuse, and death.

* * *

The tavern had a dim, orange glow about it, with only a few small windows to let in some natural light. The sun was almost set though, so dying daylight looked the same as fire and lantern light. There was a general murmur of men talking, the sound of mugs hitting tables after drinks, the crackle of the fire where deer legs and rabbits were roasting.  
  
It smelled like overcooked meat and sweaty drunkard, but Jaime ignored the unpleasant stench and checked the corners for any hulking, brooding loners that might be Clegane. His sister had been certain that Clegane was in this town, and Jaime was certain that his best shot of tracking the man down was the tavern.  
  
Cersei's information and Jaime's hunch proved to be correct when he noticed a man much larger than any of the tavern's other patrons sitting in the far back corner, nursing a flagon of wine. The man's hair was long and brushed so it covered one side of his face, but the other side Jaime could make out well enough in the dim light. The good side of the man's face, though either side would be a dead giveaway.  
  
There was little chance of missing The Hound or mistaking him for someone else. He was a big man, bigger even than the first brute Cersei had been wed to. There was only one man bigger than Sandor Clegane - that Jaime had seen - and that was Sandor's older brother, Gregor. The Cleganes were a house loyal to the Lannisters for generations, but now only Gregor was in Cersei's employ. Sandor had left roughly five years back, when Cersei had refused to allow him to fight his brother to the death.  
  
Jaime took a deep breath before he casually strode to the corner table, wondering if The Hound would ignore him or take a swing at him. He prepared himself for the swing.  
  
"Bugger off."  
  
"What, no warm hello for an old friend?" Jaime grinned and settled down across from Clegane.  
  
The larger man looked to be in a foul mood, but Jaime recalled that was The Hound's general mood. "You're no friend of mine, you golden shit, and you never were. You can tell your sister to kill me or leave me be, but unless she's offering my brother's head on a spit, I won't obey another damn command."  
  
Jaime's smile was a little strained, but he ignored The Hound's words. In truth, he had fully expected this - probably the only reason why he and Clegane wouldn't end up in a fight, especially since Clegane didn't take the swing. "Well, that's just it. My dear sister, your queen, has agreed to your terms. She would like you back in her employ. Immediately. I think the beard suits you, by the way."  
  
Clegane didn't react to the compliment. In fact he didn't seem to pay much mind to anything Jaime had said since he'd told the man he could have what he wanted, judging by his expression. The Hound stared at him with wary but widened eyes. "My brother finally gone rabid?"  
  
Jaime sighed and shifted to sit more comfortably. He did not want to be in this tavern or this town for very long. The longer this took, the more frantic Cersei would get. "No. My sister will explain, but the important thing is, she is offering you Gregor's head and whatever else you like. But we need to return now." Jaime tried to stress the word 'now.'  
  
Clegane took a swig of his wine and studied him in silence for several minutes, as if he had all the time in the world - and Jaime supposed for a man who he was fairly certain no longer cared whether he lived or died, who was being offered the one thing he did want after years of being denied, perhaps he had good reason to act so. "Something's happened. Something big."  
  
"Nothing to be discussed here." Jaime was starting to rethink the whole 'not ending up in a fight' certainty he'd had minutes earlier. "The longer you take, Clegane, the more chance there is of Cersei changing her mind."  
  
"I'll come. I'll hear her out. Might be I agree."  
  
"And if you don't, I can promise you that this time she won't let you leave with your head."  
  
The Hound snorted at that and downed his drink in one long gulp. "Then maybe I'll just refuse her out of spite."

* * *

 

 _"Queen you shall be, until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all that you hold dear."_  
  
The words of the prophecy that had haunted her all her life seemed to echo through the chamber, bouncing off the cold, stone walls. The shadows cast by the candles flickered wildly as Cersei paced; like silent laughter following after her.  
  
"I should have killed the girl myself that night," she hissed. Her shoulders were tense, and she could not stop wringing her hands. Her skin was smoother now, her blonde hair bright and healthy; there was a glow to her where once there had been weathered age. She was at the peak of her beauty - courtesy of the young maids the guards had brought her earlier.  
  
She had felt refreshed; renewed. But it did not last; it never lasted. Though the youth she had gained remained, her insides had soon begun to feel weak and weary. She was burdened by Sansa Stark's freedom, and she would feel old and worn until the girl was laying dead before her.  
  
Sansa Stark had recently come of age, and Cersei knew - she _knew_ \- that Sansa was undoubtedly beautiful. And young; so very young. She remembered the bright-eyed, auburn-haired girl of eleven well; she had never wanted to keep Sansa. She had wanted the younger one, the little rat who was blunt as a boy and dirty as one, too. But then the men had been rash, acting quickly - it was best that way, quicker and easier, but messier and sloppier - and the Stark children had all been slain. Save for Sansa and the eldest, Robb.  
  
Cersei had slit his throat herself.  
  
With the younger one dead, Sansa had been the only option. Cersei insisted on keeping one Stark child alive; the girl was of royal blood, _old_ blood. There was a chance that one day she could prove valuable. Cersei had thought that day had come when the message came; 'Kill her; take her heart; devour her purity, her youth; avert the prophecy.'  
  
But now Sansa Stark was gone, because of a foolish mistake. Hers, Trant's, it made no difference. The Stark princess had escaped, and every moment she was free was a moment that haunted Cersei.  
  
 _"Until there comes another, young and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all that you hold dear."_  
  
"She will never take my throne!"  
  
Cersei stormed over to the golden mirror, huge and opulent, her reflection glaring back at her, golden and glowing. "You promised me that she would be my salvation - now she runs free, free to fulfill my damnation!"  
  
For a moment the room was silent, still. Only the burning wicks of the candles made any noise, only the flames and the shadows moved. And then the center of the mirror rippled as if water, and gold began to pour out. It was smooth and liquid, as if melting onto the floor though the mirror never lost its round shape. And then the liquid gold pooling on the floor rose, rose, up until it was almost looming over her. There were almost no defining features to this shape save for shoulders; like a tall man cloaked in golden cloth.  
  
The smooth, blank face stared at her with her reflection, but the voice that replied to her was masculine and raspy, hoarse; like a man on his deathbed. "We offered you a solution, and you let it slip through your fingers. Yet our solution still lives. Her heart still beats," the voice promised. Now, though, the voice was feminine and weathered. The smoothness where a face should be became crinkled and aged, cracks forming. "Sansa Stark's heart can yet stop the prophecy...or bring it upon you."  
  
"Where is she?"  
  
The shape did not speak for several moments, its head lowered. "We cannot see her." The head lifted, smooth again, featureless. The voice was a whisper, too soft to be masculine or feminine. "She is shrouded in darkness; protected."  
  
Cersei's eyes narrowed, her fingers wringing themselves so forcefully that she almost grimaced. "Protected?"  
  
"You must find her, our queen. Or all will be lost."  
  
"You are supposed to help me, not offer up more riddles!" Cersei resumed her pacing, walking past the glimmering shroud. "You promised me youth, power, the seven kingdoms so long as I gave you your dues, and I have given them to you! I have raised your chapels and built your idols - and now it can all be taken down by a sheltered, little child because she is 'protected' and you will not even tell me how?!"  
  
Cersei's reflection on the blank metal where a face should be twisted and began to cave inward. Features started to appear, as though a face was now being molded or carved into the gold. The face of an old woman, wrinkled and cracked, scowled down at her. "Do not question us! We have granted you more power than any mortal has ever known. We have offered you insight to a way to avert your doom, Cersei Lannister." The voice boomed like thunder, but it was a woman's voice with the faint echo of a man's whisper. "Without our counsel you would never have known Sansa Stark to be the one, and without our counsel you would not know she could be used to your advantage."  
  
She was afraid, but Cersei refused to be cowed. Despite the tremble the warning sent running through her, she clenched her jaw and merely bowed her head. "Forgive me," she requested with a voice full of reverence that she did not mean. "I am still human, even with these gifts you have given me. I have a human's impatience."  
  
"You are forgiven," the old woman's voice assured her, softer and gentler now. "There are other powers in this realm, our queen. You have given us more sway here, but not enough. find the Stark girl. Kill the Stark girl. And you will live on forever, growing stronger as we do."  
  
"And...what of my children?"  
  
The shape became a faceless shroud once more, and the hoarse, raspy voice returned. "That which has passed cannot return. The Stranger can not tell one soul from another, and always it shall remain so."  
  
It was the same answer as always; a cruel blow, as always. Cersei closed her eyes and bowed her head; to protect her dignity as her eyes burned briefly, not out of reverence or apology. "I understand. I will find the girl."  
  
The shroud sank to the floor, liquid metal again as it slid up the wall and back into the circular mirror it had come from, while several voices seemed to speak as one. "See that you do, our queen. See that you do."

* * *

 

By the time Sandor was deemed presentable enough to go before the queen, Jaime was already by his twin sister's side, standing only a foot from the throne. Likely he had told the golden bitch that The Hound had half a mind to refuse because of a death wish. Sandor didn't really care.  
  
He approached Cersei, taking note of the smoothness of her skin and how vibrant her hair looked. He felt a twinge of disgust, knowing she had stolen that glowing youth, and recently, too. It was harder now, facing it and having no real choice but to ignore it.  
  
Elinor could have been one of those girls. Had Gregor not left her in a mess in their home, Sandor might have indeed thought Cersei the culprit before his brother.  
  
 _At least then it would have been a clean death, quick. Without the suffering drawn out as long as Gregor could make it last._  
  
Sandor clenched his fists as he stopped in front of the throne, only a few feet of distance between him and the woman who had told him that Gregor was too valuable to face justice. "Your grace." He did not bow when he spoke.  
  
Cersei smiled. It looked like it was painful. "Hound. My brother told you that I am willing to punish your brother for his crime?"  
  
"Aye, he did."  
  
"And is that enough for you? To have your brother executed, his life taken for the life he stole?"  
  
Sandor could have spat in her face, but instead he merely laughed bitterly at her words. He knew how little regard she placed on any life that was not hers or her brother's. But that did not undo the deep sting of the insult to his sister.  
  
"No. Nothing could ever be enough to right what he did, or the years you gave him because you thought his violence was worth my sister's life. He raped her and butchered her, but because it was useful to you for him to do that to the enemy, you refused to execute him or let me kill him myself. And now you want to offer me his life because somehow I have become more valuable to you. You could pay me my brother's weight in gold seven times over, and it would never be enough. So bugger you, your grace. Execute me if you like, but I'll not serve you again."  
  
The queen's entire body was tense upon her throne, and her face was tight with suppressed anger, he remembered the look well. She had been his mistress for years, and he had done terrible things in her service. The Seven only knew what horrors she wanted from him now, that would make her value him over Gregor, that would make her sit through his tirade, only to then her reign her wrath in.  
  
"Sandor Clegane, you know my powers. You know what I was capable of five years ago. But let me tell you, in the years that you have been gone, as my power spreads throughout the North and my control grows tighter, the magic that I have has grown too." Cersei leaned forward, smiling again though it appeared less painful than the last one. "I can bring her back."  
  
Breath seemed to leave him, and his chest constricted. Was he angrier that she would offer him that lie, or angrier that he wanted to believe her? "A wicked lie."  
  
"Truth, Hound. I promise you, it is truth. You see, Hound, there is a way to bring your beloved sister back, but I could only do so if I had what I have lost. The Stark princess. If you find her and bring her back to me, I can use her heart. I can restore your sister, and then offer you both The Mountain's head."  
  
He knew it could not be true, but he went along with her, a fool unable to help himself. "That is what you want of me? The Stark princess escaped, and you want me to find her?"  
  
Cersei nodded. "That and nothing more."  
  
Sandor had never been quite sure what he believed in, having been sent in to service to the queen and her twin as a boy, learning early on the things she was capable - with or without magic. He had always thought that death was beyond her grasp. He was not certain he thought any differently now, despite what she said.  
  
But he could still see Elinor on the floor of their home, bloodied, battered; he could hear the rasping of her struggles to breathe. He remembered trying to move her and only making the pain worse.  
  
She had clutched his hands, and the first time he asked her who had hurt her, she had only told him she loved him. Their brother's name had been her dying breath.  
  
"Will we be allowed to leave, go and live wherever we please?"  
  
Cersei nodded while she leaned back in her throne. "Of course. With a handsome reward for your service to me throughout the years. Enough to last you both for life."  
  
"Where did the princess escape to?"  
  
"The Wolfswood. I know you have hunted there often, on the outer edges. I also know you've become quite the skilled hunter and tracker since you left. You are better suited for this mission than any of my other men, Hound, which is why I am offering you such a generous reward."  
  
Sandor swallowed, his jaw clenching briefly. "I'll go. But I go alone. Other men will slow me down. But I'll find the girl and bring her back. And that's all."  
  
Cersei inclined her head. "That is all. But you must leave immediately. She has a day's time ahead of you."  
  
"Not nearly enough time for her," he muttered as he turned his back on the queen and her brother. He left the throne room without bothering to ask Cersei what should happen if he found the Stark princess dead - though it was just as likely he'd find the child dead as it was he'd find her alive still. For Elinor's sake, he hoped he found the girl still breathing.  
  
If there was any trace of his soul left, he knew he'd just bartered it away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank everyone who has left kudos and comments on this story so far - I've so ridiculously excited by the feedback so far! Jaime and Cersei - and Sandor - are still tricky for me to write, so my apologies if that comes across in the chapter. Feedback/constructive criticism is always welcome. :D Thank you again for the comments and kudos and bookmarks!


	4. Four

* * *

"Sansa! Sansa wake up!" Arya was yelling her name, and it felt as though she was shaking Sansa while she cried. "Sansa you must wake up!"  
  
But she did not want to wake up. Sansa wanted to remain in bed, asleep forever. She felt tired; so tired. If she opened her eyes, she would see only bad things, horrible things. If she slept, all was pretty and lovely; like in a song.  
  
"You must! Sansa!" It was Bran now, calling her name from far away. There were no longer any hands upon her, shaking her or pulling at her.  
  
"No...leave me be," she murmured. She was safe here in her bed. All was safe, all was well.  
  
"No, dear sister. You must wake up." That was Robb's voice, whispering in her ear. He sounded as tired as she felt; he sounded sad. But it was Robb, and she had cried the last time she had seen Robb.  
  
Sansa opened her eyes, and saw only sunlight, filtering in through the leaves of the treetops as they swayed above her. She sat upright in a hurry and looked around, and in her confusion she almost called out for her siblings.  
  
 _They are gone. It was only a dream._  
  
Grief welled up inside her. She had not cried since she had watched Meryn Trant cut through Ser Rodrik as the old knight tried to help her escape, and then when she had witnessed Cersei Lannister slit Robb's throat. Then she had been locked up, with Jeyne and a few other girls in the cell with her; they had been crying, too. So she had fought back her own tears, and promised them all would be well. She had hugged Jeyne close and stroked her hair. She had told them all that her uncle would come, and her father's bannermen, and the Lannister queen would be punished. They would be freed.  
  
One by one the girls had been taken, until it was only Jeyne and Sansa. Then they had taken Jeyne, too, and Sansa had wanted to cry, she had tried so hard to cry. But only silent, painful sobs came out; dry ones that shook her and made her vomit. Her tummy had ached so badly afterwards she did not eat for almost two days.  
  
More women and young girls had come, all in separate cells, kept away from her. They had all gone, too. They were brought back though, old women - the queen, one of them had whispered over and over, the queen stole their lives from their bodies  - to die slowly.  
  
Sansa had wanted to cry for them, for her people. She wanted to cry for her siblings, when she had heard they were lost. She had wanted to cry when she had glimpsed smoke outside her window, Cersei burning down some part of her home, her heritage. But the tears had not come.  
  
 _I almost cried yesterday,_ she thought. _And I feel them now, hot and stinging my eyes. I should not cry. I should be strong, and brave._ But she did cry, because she had thought for a moment that her family was whole. Her dream had been cruel; even in sleep she did not see her siblings. She could not even recall their faces when she tried.  
  
So Sansa cried until she could not cry any longer. Her eyes stung, her head hurt, her throat and chest and sides sore. But strangely she felt better; her mind clearer, her heart not so burdened.  
  
 _I will be strong now, Mother. I will try to be fierce._  
  
Judging by how much light there was, Sansa decided it must be mid-morning. There were some birds chirping high up in the trees, and the soft rustling of squirrels running through the underbrush. No barking or shouting, and there were no marks on Sansa, she was quite whole and healthy.  
  
She stood and stretched, wincing at the soreness in her limbs and back. Her neck was painfully stiff, more on the right side than the left; it hurt to turn it to far to the right. She tried not to pay much mind to it, not when she could have been discovered or eaten by wolves during the night.  
  
After circling around and trying to determine where the sun actually was, Sansa began to head west, towards the coast. _Or should I go north? Or south? What if the queen has men surrounding all edges of the wood?_  
  
A flash of movement caught her attention, and Sansa glanced over to see the white animal from the evening before. It was not running now, but walking, trotting along as if it had not noticed her.  
  
Quietly, Sansa crept after, trying to see what it was. It was white, pure white, and big. She had thought it a horse until she had seen it couldn't possibly be a horse, too bulky and the neck and head all wrong. A white bear, like the ones beyond the wall that Old Nan had often spoke of? No - though it moved on all fours, it did not lumber along like bears did. Or so her father had told Arya, who had told her.  
  
The animal started trotting faster, and Sansa moved faster to keep up. Then the animal was running, so fast it was all but flying, and Sansa ran after it - not even sure why, not even aware of what she was doing, acting only on instinct. She followed the animal like she had the night before, and though her legs felt as though they were about to cramp up and her tummy growled, she ignored everything and ran.  
  
 _Is this how Arya felt, running off and playing in the yards and the woods? So...free?_ Her sister had always been getting dirty and playing with wooden swords and asking about how to hunt, how to fight. Arya was most unladylike, and it had always upset Sansa because she and her sister could not have been anymore different. _If I saw her again, I would hug her. I would not care if she was dirty or muddy, I would hug her and dirty my own clothes if I must. And I would do things that she liked, and we could run together if it was like this._  
  
Sansa laughed and cried - though she had thought herself empty of tears - and chased after the white animal until she thought her lungs would burst inside her chest. She stumbled to a stop, all but collapsing onto her knees though she was still laughing. That was when she realized she had lost sight of the beast.  
  
 _Like last night - it seems to vanish into the woods._ Which Sansa could not understand how, as the animal was so bright in the murky forest.  
  
 _I will rest shortly, and then be on my way._ Sansa decided to keep heading in the direction the animal had been running. North.

* * *

It was well past noon by the time Sandor found the ashes and the telltale signs of someone having slept nestled under a nearby oak. He reckoned the girl had perhaps at most two hours ahead of him, maybe less if she had stopped to eat. He was certain she hadn't eaten here - but then perhaps the girl would just nibble on berries or nuts that she could find while she traveled. He didn't reckon the princess had much skill as a hunter.  
  
Her trail led North; North was good. She would get colder, and have a harder time finding a food source. Which meant taking longer to search her food out; there was even the chance that she would grow too weak and too cold to continue. The girl wasn't used to traveling on foot.  
  
 _Likely she isn't used to walking much at all_. Sandor knew of the Stark princess. He had seen her, all those years ago, when Cersei had ordered the child locked away when the takeover of Winterfell was done, and all other Starks there had been slain. And locked away was where the girl had been until the previous morning.  
  
It was a short, sad life for the girl, but it would be over soon. He ignored the twinge of guilt and quickly shut down the memory of his sister. He would have Elinor back soon enough; it was a fair trade, a life for a life.  
  
 _And Gregor's life, too. Two lives for one. But then Gregor isn't worth half a life, no matter how big or how old he is._  
  
But what if it was all a trick? He should have asked for Gregor's head first. Payment up front. Cersei was as likely to kill him and the girl both when he returned, rather than kill Gregor and spend her energy bringing Elinor back.  
  
 _This is a fool's folly,_ he told himself. He had been telling himself that all morning. But he stubbornly ignored his own advice and all the bitter lessons he had learned through his life. He saw Elinor's smile and heard her laugh, and remembered the times when he would come to her, and she would make him feel human again. Not The Hound, not The Mountain's deformed dog of a brother. Two lives and his own soul were worth his sister's return.  
  
Behind him, Stranger whickered impatiently and stomped his hoof at the ground.  
  
"Aye, boy, let's be off." Sandor strode over to the black courser and remounted. He could feel the horse's eagerness to take off; the stallion was rarely content when not grazing lazily or galloping on a hunt. "Steady, boy," he spoke softly to the horse, patting his neck before leading him into a quiet trot after the princess' trail. "It'll be time for running soon enough." 

* * *

The sun was still high in the sky when Sansa found a small brook and stopped once more to catch her breath. It had been hours since she had glimpsed the white animal. After her burst of energy running after the beast, she had collapsed for some time; perhaps a half hour, perhaps longer. She could not say. Then she had resumed her journey, walking and walking and walking through the denseness of the Wolfswood.  
  
Occasionally she heard howling from afar, and sometimes she heard the chirping and whistling of songbirds flittering overhead. Now and then she heard the rustling of the underbrush, or twigs snapping close by, and would turn in circles to make certain she was not being followed.  
  
 _There are plenty of animals in these woods. But no dogs barking, no horses neighing; I would hear these things. I would._  
  
Sansa could not find any sign that her pursuers were catching up on her, but she had picked up her pace all the same. Her feet throbbed, and her lungs burned, though, and her tummy ached it was so empty. Her lips were dry, her throat parched; the brook she had found was a blessing from the old gods and the new, and she said a prayer to each.  
  
The cold water was a sweet relief to her lips and tongue. She could feel the chill of it in her chest and tummy as she drank her fill. It did little to appease her hunger, but Sansa found it easier to ignore that now that she had sated her thirst. Upon drinking until she felt she could drink no more, she noticed how dirty her hands were.  
  
How long had it been since she had been bathed? Her dip in the frigid river could hardly count.  
  
The queen would sometimes send handmaidens to scrub her down when she would get larger clothes for her growing body, and sometimes she would let Sansa have a bucket and rags to clean herself after her moonblood had passed. It had been at least a week - or was it two, or even three? - since her last moonblood, and perhaps a year since she had needed larger clothes.  
  
 _What I would give for a hot bath and a clean dress,_ she thought to herself. Ignoring the chill in her fingers from the cold water, she lowered them back under the surface of the brook and rubbed as best she could. She just wanted to get a little of the grime and the stink off her skin. She brought water to her face again, scrubbing with the pads of her fingers and the palm of her hands. Her skin felt icy now, but cleaner.  
  
And then she heard the thunder of hooves.

* * *

He found her kneeling next to a brook, scrubbing away at her face. She was not too difficult to spot - though her clothes were muddied brown and grass-stained green, her hair was an auburn that shown copper in the sunlight. Which, when he quietly guided Stranger towards the soft splashing of water, was shining right on her, giving her up straight away.  
  
Her back to him, the girl remained oblivious. She looked more like a child than a woman, more peasant than princess.  
  
He had not helped round up girls or dragged them from cells to bring to his queen in a long time. Yet it was alarmingly easy the way Sandor stopped being nothing more than a hunter and slipped back into being The Hound, obeying Cersei's orders because that's what he was good for. He spurred Stranger to a gallop, heading straight for the girl.  
  
The noise finally alerted the Stark girl to his presence, but he was already closing in. Her head spun around, eyes widening at the sight of him. The girl took off then, leaping over the brook, but Stranger was on her within seconds.  
  
Sandor brought the stallion up beside the girl, reaching down and grabbing the back of her dress. She was a tall, wiry thing, but she didn't weigh much to him at all. He plucked her up from the ground and laid her across Stranger, ignoring her screaming and thrashing as he held her there. He slowed his horse to a canter and then a trot. He let go of the reigns then, grabbing a bit of rope from his satchel.  
  
"No! Please, no!" the girl kept screaming, kicking and thrashing her limbs about.  
  
Annoyed by the knees jamming against his side, Stranger twisted his head around, but Sandor grabbed the reigns and tugged before the horse could bite a toe off.  
  
"Scream all you bloody well like, girl, but if you want to keep all your fingers and toes intact you had best stop hitting my horse," Sandor growled while he tried to bind the girl's wrists together behind her back.  
  
The girl only continued to trying to wriggle free of his grasp. She was stronger than he had expected upon the sight of her, and knowing that she hadn't been in the world outside of her cell in seven years. But then that was seven years of fear and captivity fueling her now, wasn't it? The Stark girl managed to maneuver to her side just enough - and then _she_ bit _him_ , on his arm near the elbow.  
  
"Seven buggering hells!" he hissed more in surprise than pain - she'd bitten hard, but his coat and tunic were thick. The princess' trick worked though; his grip on her loosened enough for her to slip free, sliding right down off the side of Stranger. Sandor muttered another curse and dismounted quickly, grabbing the girl once more.  
  
"I won't go back!" She screamed out him. Her voice was so hoarse though, he noticed that now. She was filthy, too; the scrubbing he'd caught her in the middle of hadn't done much more than perhaps clean her cheeks and make her face red with cold. Her eyes were wide with fear, her auburn hair in matted tangles. Her dress looked a size or two too small and was in tatters, the bosom too tight for her teats. Even her shoes were pathetic; more like slippers and almost worn through.  
  
This was Cersei's prized possession - a frightened girl in ruins.  
  
But it wasn't Sandor's place to question. He reached for the girl again, grabbing her by one wiry arm and ignoring when she started punching and kicking out of desperation. He took the rope from where it lay draped over Stranger.  
  
"I can't! Please...please, don't take me back there, don't take me to her - she's a false queen, she's a traitor and a murderer!"  
  
"And a witch and a cunt, aye! I'll not deny it, princess," he rasped as he took hold of her other arm when she tried to hit him again. "But she's offering me something only she can give for your return, so beg and plead to your heart's content, and know your cries are wasted on me." He pulled her two wrists together and began to bind them.  
  
The girl yanked and pulled and kicked and shoved her entire body against him, probably hoping to knock him off balance. Sandor took a small step back to steady himself, and the girl collapsed against him. "Please...she killed my father, my brothers and sister...she'll kill me, too, I know it. I can't die. I'm the last Stark. I can't die yet."  
  
Sandor said nothing and finished binding her hands. He knew she was right; the queen would kill her as soon as she had the Stark girl back in her clutches. He didn't care though; he couldn't care. He would get Elinor back, and they would get Gregor's life, and then their freedom as Cersei solidified her reign over the whole of the seven kingdoms. What did he care if she was a tyrant full of black magic? All kings and queens were tyrants in the end, and he and his sister would be somewhere quiet and safe, where Cersei wouldn't care to look.  
  
The girl was shaking as she remained slumped against him. Her breathing was shaky and loud, and Sandor realized she was crying.  
  
"Why? How can you serve her?" the girl choked out. She raised her head to look up at him - she was tall for a girl, very tall, especially for one trapped in a cage for almost half her life. Her face was full of pain and fear and despair.  
  
Elinor had looked much the same that day.  
  
Sandor shoved the girl towards Stranger, forcing back guilt and pity. He didn't care about this girl; he didn't care about any of the girls. He turned his eyes away from the queen's dark secrets and her victims, and did his job. He was a Clegane, and Cleganes were dogs that were bred to serve their masters.  
  
And their masters were the Lannisters. For a few generations now, their master had been mistress - had been Cersei. He was born to enter into her service, he was burned and broken by his brother to be hardened for her service. He had been loyal; blindly loyal. Ignoring all of Elinor's quiet questions, telling her to keep them to herself for her own safety.  
  
"Don't you worry about those other girls. Worry about you."  
  
He had thought that as long as he was loyal, as long as he dedicated his life to service to his queen, Elinor would be safe.  
  
 _I'll have her back. This girl is the only way I can have her back._  
  
But the doubts returned, the reasoning and logic. Why would Cersei let him go if she gave up his brother to the executioner? Why would she use such strong magic to bring Elinor back? If this girl's heart was somehow a key to some magic ritual to bring life back from the dead...why waste it on him once she already had her prize?  
  
"She is evil!" the princess was whimpering; it sounded as though she was no longer crying as he lifted her up by her hips and set her astride the stallion. "She is evil and cruel and wicked...how can you serve her?"  
  
Sandor swallowed. "I don't." He mounted Stranger, behind the girl, and turned his horse south. "Keep quiet, girl. I'm tired of your crying."  
  
The girl spoke again, so softly at first he could scarcely hear her. But as she continued to speak, her voice grew louder, and steadier. "So am I. But now it seems that's all I have left to do in life. Cry. For my family, and for myself. If you are taking me back to my death, then I shall spend my final moments however I please. I am Princess Sansa Stark, of Winterfell, and no foreign traitor in service to the foreign queen will decide how my final days are spent!" She shuddered with that, a hoarse sob punctuating her speech. But then she raised her head high, back straightened, and quieted down.  
  
All of a sudden, she looked every bit the princess she truly was. In that moment, he thought she looked more a queen than Cersei Lannister ever had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has commented, left kudos, and bookmarked this story! It means so much to me! I appreciate all of the feedback I've gotten, and it just makes me more excited to write this story. :D Also thank you to my tumblr sisters for letting me ramble in their inboxes. ;)
> 
> I hope to have chapter five up by Monday night. I the chapter outlined, and the first third of it written already. I wanted to get this chapter up sooner, but personal matters interrupted the flow. For the Sansa and Sandor interactions early on, I'm drawing influence not just from their book and tv scenes, but also from the early Snow White/Huntsman scenes in SWATH, as well as a little influence from the wolf-dog roadtrip of doom in ASOS. I'm trying to mesh these influences together to keep Sandor and Sansa IC and to make the scenes work in a way that feels natural to this alternate setting.
> 
> Feedback and constructive criticism welcome, and appreciated! :)


	5. Five

* * *

It felt as though they had been riding for long hours and yet only for a few, short minutes by the time the sun finally set. Time seemed to slip by too fast, yet she felt as though she had been trapped in herself for far too long.  
  
They would reach Winterfell by morning if they did not stop. They would reach it by noon or not long after if they did stop.  
  
She would spend her last hours in this life riding a temperamental horse, sitting in a most indecent position in front of one of Cersei's men, and would then be handed over to the traitor, false queen who had killed her father and brother, and had allowed her brutish men to butcher Sansa's younger siblings.  
  
The Starks would all fall. Her bloodline, the blood of her father, would die with her.  
  
Over and over she had faced this truth. Over and over she had felt waves of anguish and nausea pass through her. But she had silenced her cries and swallowed her bile. She was a princess; she would die like a proper princess, with her dignity and in the knowledge that one day, someone would rise up against the queen.  
  
Perhaps the Starks would fall. But she knew that one day, Cersei Lannister would too.  
  
 _I will be with my lord father and lady mother soon; I will see Robb and Arya and Bran and Rickon again. I will know their faces once more,_ she told herself. It was the only comfort she could think of. _I will not mourn what could have been; I will not. Plenty of girls die young, before they knew love and sweet kisses, without knights coming to their rescue, without marrying a handsome lord or prince and having babies and watching them grow. Jeyne and the others, they were all taken young, too. I will join them tomorrow._  
  
The man the queen had sent after her was a giant of a man - perhaps as large as the stable boy, Hodor, had been. He was gruff sounding and mean, with a horribly burnt face that would have frightened her years ago. He and his horse seemed well suited to each other; big and mean-spirited.  
  
"Why do you serve her?" she asked him. She had asked him that many times; once he had told her that he did not, but he would get a reward worth her life. The other times he had ignored her. If he ignored her now, she would ask him again soon.  
  
"Keep quiet."  
  
"I have kept quiet enough for too long. How does she instill such loyalty in you? Tell me. Tell me why you would hunt me down and take me back to her, knowing she wants me dead, calling her witch and...other things. You do not seem fond of your queen, yet she is your queen all the same."  
  
The man behind her exhaled harshly; when he spoke, his gruff voice sounded curt with anger. "She is everyone's queen, girl! Whether they want it or not, they'll have her for their queen until the day they die, and until the day their children die. You Northerners are hard to convince of that, but that doesn't change the land's fate. I serve her because that's all I was ever meant to do, from the day I was born; it's what I'm good at. I stopped serving her, but never lost her eyes on me. Once she's seen you, she can always see you; whenever she likes. Aye, she is a witch and a cunt and a killer - and a bloody tyrant, same as the kings and queens before her. But once you're back in her grasp, I'm done. You're my final task, you hear me? So don't be getting it into your head that just because I don't like her you can sway me."  
  
Sansa felt herself inwardly bristling at the implication that her father and mother had been tyrants; that they had been _anything_ like Cersei. "Not all rulers are tyrants. Not all tyrants are rulers. What would you know of my lord father? Of my lady mother, dead before your queen stepped foot on Northern soil?"  
  
Her captor shrugged, his anger no longer so hot. "Might be. Might be you father was less of a tyrant. But as kind a tyrant as he was, he sent beggar thieves and rapists alike to that damned wall - tell me, is a starving man the same as a rapist? And when these men, exiled to that barren wasteland, run for freedom, it was said your own kingly father was the one that took their heads."  
  
"But they still stole goods! And the men of the Night's Watch have sworn an oath! They dishonor themselves and their family when they run, and a king must keep to the laws."  
  
"Should a man with no say be held to oaths he never meant? Might be it was dishonorable, but so is skinning a man alive, according to your laws. Yet your father turned a blind eye to the secrets of House Bolton, so long as the house lord said to his face the custom was long abandoned. When the men returned from the Dreadfort, the same year Cersei took your father's life and throne, they brought back skins ten years old and some fresher than that. Lord Bolton himself swore fealty to her majesty. Might be your father was a tyrant by being an honorable fool."  
  
Sansa opened her mouth to speak, but then hesitated. Confusion tore at her.  
  
One of her father's own bannermen had sworn fealty to the queen - one who, if she believed her captor, had been breaking the laws of the North even before her mother's death. How could her father's men - _her_ men now - betray their king and home so easily?  
  
And what of her father? Had he suspected? No. Never. Her had always taught his children the importance of honor, of obeying the laws and not offending the old gods. He had taught them the importance of justice. She did not want to think of her father as anything other than just and honorable and good and right.  
  
"Even if what you said is true, that doesn't make _your_ queen right."  
  
The man gripped one of her arms painfully tight and rasped in her ear, "Stop calling her my queen."  
  
Sansa winced, but turned her head to stare up at him defiantly. "But she is your queen! You said so yourself, even if you do not want me to keep reminding you. Whether this is your last task she gives to you, she will always be your queen. And if she always sees you, she will come for you again. She will want you for something else one day."  
  
The man's face seemed to twist with rage, his burned side twitching in a way that looked painful, but he merely shoved her forward a little as he let go of her.  
  
"What is it she will give you? What is worth my life?" she demanded to know even as she trembled in fear and anger. "What would make you serve her again, after leaving her? You hate her. I can hear it in your voice, yet you insist on obeying her and escorting me to my execution. Why? What is the price of your service, of my life?"  
  
He did not speak. He did not even look at her when she glanced back at him.  
  
Sansa sighed, weary, and straightened herself up once more. She might would have cried, except she was too tired and too angry to cry. Her father had been a good man, a good and just king. Her mother had been a good queen.  
  
They had never been like the Lannister queen.  
  
Behind her, her captor remained silent. It wore on for a time, before Sansa could no longer stand it.  
  
"Please...tell me of my kingdom. Keep your price from me, but tell me some news - tell me anything. I...I have not spoken with anyone in so long. It is good to hear another voice, even one as unpleasant as yours."  
  
 _Septa Mordane would be mortified,_ she thought with a faint smile. But her courtesies were half-forgotten, and the man's voice was unpleasant, just like the rest of him. And what good would those courtesies do her now any how?  
  
After several minutes, Sansa felt her shoulders drop in defeat; he would not speak to her anymore. She had made him too angry; she thought that ridiculous. She was the prisoner being taken to her death. But she was miserable over the fact more than angry; now she had only her own morose thoughts to keep her company again.  
  
"My sister."  
  
Sansa started at the sound of his voice. She turned her head back, curious.  
  
The man met her gaze briefly and then stared ahead again. "My sister is the price. She was taken from me five years ago. I left Cersei's service then, out of anger. But she promised she could return my sister if I found you."  
  
Her anger towards the man softened a touch, and - for reasons she could not fathom - she touched his arm with her bound hands. "I hope she keeps her word."  
  
The man let out a harsh, bitter laugh and looked at her. His scarred face was cruel, hateful, but she met his gaze all the same. "Spare me your false sympathies, princess."  
  
"I speak truly," she whispered, almost hurt that he would think her mocking him or tricking him. "I know what it is like to lose your family. I lost a sister, and three brothers, besides my father. I lost friends in the days afterward. I hope wherever your sister is, she is safe." Sansa stared down at her bound hands, uselessly picking at the rough, itchy rope. "And if I am to die, I hope that your sister is returned to you promptly upon the completion of your task, and that the false queen does not call on you again."  
  
 _Let those who can know peace and contentment know it,_ she thought, half-praying. _If I must die, let it at least bring peace._  
  
He was staring at her, the giant of a man, with his cruel, intense gaze; she could feel the weight of his eyes upon her. And then he laughed again. Only it wasn't quite a laugh; it was half a sob, an angry, painful sound. He laughed bitterly and pulled his mean-spirited horse to a stop. He grabbed her arms tight, turning her upper body around until it almost hurt. "I know why she wants you so badly now. Truly, I do."  
  
Sansa blinked in confusion. "Because I am the rightful heir." What else would it be? Of course the Lannister queen wanted her returned - she was a Stark. The last Stark of Winterfell, who was the true queen of the North. What else would it be?  
  
"No, wolf princess, it's so much more than that," he spoke, and he sounded so different. Still gruff and rasping, but there was emotion there besides anger and irritation and spite. He pulled out a small blade with one hand, held her wrists up with the other.  
  
"I don't understand."  
  
Her captor's mouth twitched. He sliced through the rope with his blade and looked her in the eye. "You will one day, princess. One day soon, I'd wager." He dismounted from the stallion, and then pulled her from the horse as well. "But for now, you should run. I know of a village to the Northwest. There are no queen's men there."  
  
Sansa was still confused. He was letting her go? Why? She wanted to ask him, but she was afraid if she did, he would change his mind. Was this some kind of trick? She took a step back; she should run, do as he had told her. Run and never look back. But she hesitated.  
  
"Go on, run!" he shouted at her, gesturing towards the Northwest, where a village that she would be safe in waited. "Before my wits return."  
  
"What of your sister?"  
  
He swallowed at that, his eyes distant. "My sister is already lost. I was a fool to think I could ever get her back." The man looked at her with those angry eyes of his. "But you have a chance. Now go on with you, before you lose that chance! I will not be the only one she sends out after you."  
  
No. If he did not return her to the queen..."Come with me. Please. I cannot stay in that village. I need to find men who will fight in my father's name."  
  
"Go to the village, girl. Remember what it is like to live outside the dark cell walls of your cage for a while. You might be a threat to Cersei, but not if you rush ahead. You don't even know what this North of yours is like these days. I'll keep the queen off your trail as long as I can, but go now. Run."  
  
"No." She shook her head and reached for the man's hand. She needed him; he was a brute and a foreign traitor from the Lannister queen's own land. But she needed him, and no matter how long he held the queen off her trail, his end would be the same. "I cannot survive on my own. You are right, I know nothing of what's become of my kingdom. Even if I make it to this village, how do I know they will be able to provide me with the information I seek? When the time comes for me to move on, who will keep me safe?"  
  
Her last words caused the man to snort derisively. "I do not keep people safe, girl. I kill them. I help round them up and lead them to the slaughter if I don't slaughter them myself. I am a butcher, not a young girl's protecter." He yanked his hand from her and moved to remount his horse.  
  
Sansa grabbed his arm and held tight. "When she finds you, she will kill you!"  
  
"Maybe it's what I deserve."  
  
"Are you always so stubborn? Even if you do not care about your own life, what about mine? You cared nothing for me moments ago. You say your sister is lost, you say you might deserve to die, and you tell me to run, to save myself. But I cannot protect myself from any men that might find me later, and I cannot hunt for myself when I travel alone. What if this village is not as you remember? And what if they are frightened when a girl named Stark seeks sanctuary?" She felt desperate, something she had felt more often than princesses should feel, but Sansa did not let go or distance herself while he stared at her hands on his arm. It was improper, but what good was propriety now? "I do not know what you are, if you are a knight or just a brute, but you do not love the Lannister queen. Come with me. Keep me safe. I swear, when I no longer have need of you, I will not try to stop you when you leave."  
  
"I can't keep anyone safe," he said. But he sounded weary, and she knew he was relenting. "I'll stay with you. Until we've found the resistance, I will stay with you."  
  
She could feel herself smiling up at him, overcome by relief. She did not know why; he was horrible company, and fearsome to look at. But she had not known the joy of having a companion to talk to and to touch for so long. "Thank you."  
  
"Don't thank me yet, princess," he muttered, and helped her back on his horse.  
  
Sansa ignored his response. "What is your name?"  
  
"Sandor Clegane. And you'll adress me by name, or by dog or Hound if you prefer. But I'm not a lord or a knight, and you had best remember that."  
  
She had not thought him a knight - or a lord - but she did not bother to tell him that. She only continued smiling and nodded. "Thank you, Sandor Clegane."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A chapter on time! I was worried earlier I wouldn't get it done tonight, but I pulled through and had a lot of fun. :) It's tricky, trying to make sure the characters feel IC in the au setting, but I'm working hard to pull it off successfully. Feedback/constructive criticism is always welcome. :) Many, many thanks, as always, to everyone for the comments and kudos! I hope - but I'm not promising - to have chapter six done and up by Saturday.


	6. Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit (03/03/13): When I was rereading this chapter before starting chapter seven, I noticed a few areas that could use improvement, as well as minor additions that I felt would make this chapter stronger. So I revised the chapter (the Sandor/Sansa scene mostly) to hopefully make it read smoother and feel more IC. :)

* * *

The sun had slipped past the tops of the trees completely, the blue of the sky deepening every minute. Another night, and the Stark girl was still free. Soon it would be two days since her escape. Had Clegane caught the girl yet? He was known as The Hound, and hounds were trackers, though she had not often used him for such tasks. But he would obey; for the promise of his sweet sister, he would obey.  
  
 _But the Stark girl could have reached eager rebels. Or perhaps she is dead, frozen and wolf's meat. It would be fitting. And better dead than rousing the rebellion more._  
  
Cersei had retreated to her private sanctuary after The Hound's departure, emerging only to give orders to send more men into the Wolfswood only hours after she had sent off Clegane. She had learned well that faith in one man alone was a vain and fruitless faith; the whispers had reminded her of Meryn Trant's failure.  
  
The Hound would obey, but obedience did not ensure success.  
  
 _"The more men you send after the girl, the more hands she need slip from,"_ they had whispered. They had ordered her to send for The Hound's brother, Ser Gregor - but The Mountain That Rides was squashing rebellion in The Neck. _"He could find the girl, and his grip would not loosen,"_ they had said.  
  
No, they would tighten, until she became a martyr for the rebel cause, Cersei feared. Better to catch the girl and bring her back to die in the dark, where no prying eyes would see her suffering.  
  
Nor had she sent Jaime, the faceless companion's other suggestion. No, she needed her brother. Even when he was not permitted in the chamber and would wait in silence or beat his fists and ask her not to shut him out, she needed him. Knowing he was just outside, waiting for her, gave her strength. A strength that gold and magic and the promise of the gods could not offer.  
  
The golden shroud, reflecting the dying candlelight, stood silent in front of the mirror that had birthed it.  
  
"Can you see her?" Cersei whispered so as not to alert Jaime, still waiting for her.  
  
No one was permitted to see the shroud of looming, liquid gold, not even her own twin, her own sword hand.  
  
"No, our queen. She is shrouded in winter; there is nothing but whiteness and cold when we search for her." It was the old woman's voice that spoke to her; kindly now, wise and comforting. _Placating_ her.  
  
"It is not yet winter - yet somehow winter hides her!" Cersei hissed accusingly at her distorted reflection upon the cracked gold. "I should have killed her." She clasped her hands together and pressed them to her belly. "I should have stabbed her heart with the blade dripping her father's and brother's blood." That girl had her mother's coloring, but she was a Stark and a beauty.  
  
 _The girl may have Tully hair and Tully eyes, but her beauty will be Lyanna Stark come again, to haunt me and taunt me. Let her. I am a lioness. I will shred the little flower. She is a weed, nothing more, and I will destroy her, as I should have done seven years ago. As I should have done generations ago._  
  
Cersei took a deep, calming breath to compose herself. She exhaled and smoothly inquired, "What of Clegane?"  
  
For several moments the silence stretched on, long and agonizing as Cersei waited. And then the head turned, back and forth. "No, our queen. He has slipped into the winter haze that obstructs our sight; he has found the girl."  
  
Relief flooded her; he had found the girl. It was only a matter of time now; the other men would find him, escort him back to gaurantee her prize was returned to her - or killed before she could reach the rebellion. Overwhelmed, her hands loosened their hold on each other to brace against the stone wall for support.  
  
"Then it will be over soon." _This winter weed will be gone._  
  
"He has not yet brought the girl back, our queen. As long as the girl remains outside these walls, she is a threat to you - and to us," the old woman's voice sounded as though she was right next to Cersei, speaking directly to her ear. "The leaves whisper to her, though she does not yet understand. But they are calling her. We hear their song through the winter haze."  
  
Cersei's head turned sharply, eyes narrowing as she met her own reflection's gaze. "Their song?"  
  
The shroud bowed its head. "Our queen, the girl has the blood of the First Men flowing through her veins. While she breathes...while her heart beats...they of old will call to her."  
  
Laughter bubbled up, and Cersei could not contain her humor. With a sneer on her lips, she approached her faceless companion. "I have burned the last godswoods to the ground and chopped up every weirwood. There are seven septs being raised as we speak, and seven more will be raised after them. The smallfolk flock to you. They honor your. If those old gods still sing, it is their swan song."  
  
The shroud answered her only with silence. It was greedy; or they. It, they, she did not know. She did not care. They had come to her in her darkest hour, when she had thought all was lost. Those voices had promised her retribution and power and respect. They - it - had promised her all she had wanted and been denied; _even by my own flesh and blood._  
  
But it was - they were? - fickle and flighty and demanded more, more, more. Perhaps they were unsatisfied with this northern land she had conquered; perhaps they were unsatisfied that there were still whispered prayers to dead trees. But times would change, and they were the ones in power, the ones who had never lost anything, the ones who did not know what it was like to bleed or to beg.  
  
Cersei turned away from it, moving over to one of the windows so she could gaze out at the darkness of her northern kingdom. "If I have her heart...if our powers will only grow..."  
  
"What is dead is gone; but what was lost will be returned."  
  
Cersei closed her eyes. How she hated them; it. The whisperers, the distorted reflection and the faces sometimes formed in the gold - they did not know how it felt to bleed or to lose part of yourself. One hand slid over her stomach, where she had felt her children grow and kick. Beautiful children, with gold-blond hair that matched hers and Jaime's. Her beautiful, sweet children.  
  
Gold and gods did not know what it was like to cry or scream.  
  
"Your Grace...send for The Mountain That Rides. Rebellion can be crushed when the princess is gone. But if the princess escapes...rebellion can grow, and grow and grow." It was the voice of the dying she heard now; a hollow and breathy voice too hoarse to be called man or woman. It was a voice of too much knowledge.  
  
"Very well," Cersei relented. The voice was right. They were so close now...she should take every precaution, especially after her small taste of foolishness. She relinquished the lock on the door. "Jaime!"  
  
The door opening near instantly, and her brother entered. He did not notice the small ripple spreading from the center of the mirror to its edge.  
  
"Cersei, it's been an entire day since you ate," he told her, wrapping his arms around her. "Stop doing this to yourself."  
  
She closed her eyes, ignoring his scoldings, and let her brother hold her. Yes, she would summon Ser Gregor, and keep Jaime there with her. It would always be them, just as it always had been. And soon it would be more; it would be them and beautiful children running free; Jaime could hold these children, and they could call him father without fear.  
  
 _Would that you could see me now, Father. Soon, I will have all of Westeros completely under my rule. A lioness with all seven kingdoms for her hunting grounds. Would that have made you proud?_  
  
But her father was bones and dust now, like her children and her first husband, and all the ones after him. It was only her now; her and Jaime.

* * *

It was past dusk when the girl piped up again. She had been quiet for a long while after he had agreed to remain with her until she was someplace safe. "You spoke of a resistance. There are still bannermen fighting in my father's name?"  
  
"Aye. There are rumored to be pockets of Stark loyalists along the east coast, but most of the force seems to be located in The Neck. That's where the queen's been focusing her efforts against them." Led by his brother, he'd heard. When it was time to squash rebellion, Gregor was the one sent; it's what his brother was good for.  
  
"Are we heading to The Neck, then?"  
  
Sandor snorted. "Not unless you want to be captured again and taken back to Cersei. The farther south you go, the more Lannister men there are." _And not one of them as foolish as me._ "No, we go to the village first. Find some better clothes for you."  
  
And after that, well, Sandor really wasn't sure where they could go. He just knew that south was not an option.  
  
Cersei and her forces knew there were rebels hiding somewhere along the east coast, but the precise location was a mystery. It hadn't been discovered before he left, and if they'd found it since, the whole of the North would know. Which meant the only certainty was The Neck - but to get to the loyal crannogmen, he and the girl would have to go around Gregor and his men.  
  
Which made The Neck the second last place he would lead the girl to, right after Winterfell itself.  
  
"Then where will we go?"  
  
Bugger if he knew.  
  
"The village," he growled impatiently and grabbed the wineskin he'd brought along. He hadn't had a drink since before his audience with the queen, and he didn't feel like waiting until they reached the bloody village.  
  
It was unfair to blame the girl for wanting to know where he was taking her, he knew that. But he didn't have the slightest clue where to take her, where she could be safe for more than a few days, a couple weeks at best.  
  
He felt like a fool; a sentimental, old fool, falling for the wet eyes and sweet words of a princess with tangled hair and tattered clothing. He should have gagged her or knocked her out and then urged Stranger into a gallop, not stopping until he reached Winterfell.  
  
 _Then what? Hand her over, expect the queen to keep her word?_  
  
Oh, he was a fool, that was certain - a fool to accept Cersei's offer in the first place. He should have turned around and walked right out of the throne room. Maybe Jaime would have killed him before he could even reach the door. Then the queen would have had a right pretty stain there at the entrance to clean up.  She also would have had to find someone else to fetch the girl.  
  
Perhaps Cersei would have called Gregor up from The Neck. _He wouldn't be swayed by wet eyes and sweet words._ Sandor took another swig from the wineskin to help him swallow down the bile that rose up in his throat at the thought. No, Gregor would never have been convinced to turn his back on the queen's orders. He would have delivered Sansa Stark right to Cersei's feet, but likely dead or dying.  
  
 _Like Elinor._  
  
Sandor took a long swig from the skin, gulping down half the wine. He could feel it going right to his head, though not enough to render him drunk. He reluctantly put the skin back; he couldn't afford to get drunk yet. When they reached the village and found a place to sleep for a while, then he'd drink his fill.  
  
"I don't know where after that," he begrudgingly added on, when he noticed how the girl had stiffened, and that she hadn't make a peep. "The Neck isn't an option, but no one knows where the other groups are hiding."  
  
The girl's - Sansa, he supposed he should think of her, now that he had given his loyalty to her for a time - rigid posture relaxed after he spoke up again. When she replied, it was impossible to tell she had even been upset at all. "Then how do you know there are any loyal men outside of The Neck?"  
  
"Because there have been attacks on the queen's men at different towns along the east coast, especially around the Bay of Seals. The Umbers were thought to be heading it up, after their lands were overtaken. Some were caught early on, but others escaped and haven't been seen. There have been a few other houses rumored to have joined them. But it's all rumor, smallfolk talk."  
  
Sansa nodded as she listened. For a short while she said nothing, and Sandor assumed the conversation over for the time being, until, "We should head north."  
  
"We're heading north now, girl."  
  
"I meant after the village. Straight up north," she explained. Her tone was insistent, but Sandor wasn't sure if it was because she knew of a place to go, or because she was remembering what it was like to be royalty.  
  
"And what awaits us north, princess? The Wall? It's manned only by Lannister men now."  
  
The girl gasped, twisting around to stare up at him in horror. "But the men are sworn for life! And, they take no sides, she had no cause!"  
  
Sandor shrugged. "You had an uncle there, with hundreds of brothers - even if by oath and not blood. The Wall itself is of the North, with many northern men manning it. Cersei doesn't like taking chances. She went there herself to see your uncle executed. The rest were sent on their way and warned that if they tried to return or tried to raise up in rebellion, they would meet the same fate as their Stark brother. Though I've heard talk that many of them linger in The Gift. Might be they'd shelter you, but like you said, they take no sides. If they take their oaths so seriously as to remain in the nearby villages even with the threat of death over them, I wouldn't wager on them helping restore you to the throne."  
  
The girl - Sansa - slowly turned frontward again, her head bowed. "I never meant for us to go to the Wall," she whispered; her voice sounded strained, tight with emotion. Had she not known about her uncle? She had been locked away, but Sandor had thought she would have assumed...after the brutality of that night...  
  
 _And your own bloody part in it. Maybe you should tell her about that too. Or what happened to all those girls of Winterfell, the pretty ones that Cersei could use. Or better yet, what Gregor and the others did with so many of the ones Cersei didn't want - or didn't know about._  
  
Sandor kept his mouth shut, not saying another bloody word for a long while. It took all his will not to reach for the wineskin again.  
  
He'd opened his mouth without thinking - but the princess should have known better. With her locked away in a cell, Cersei would not let any other Stark live and breathe. Besides, he was no good with delicate things, and if she wanted his protection and company, best she learn that.  
  
The sooner the better.  
  
When the girl spoke up again, her voice was steadier. "I was heading north before, wasn't I?"  
  
"Aye."  
  
Sansa nodded at his confirmation. "North is where we need to go. I do not know how I know that, or how to explain why we must. But we must go north. After the village, and better clothes if they have some."  
  
Biting back a growl of frustration, Sandor pulled Stranger to a stop and ignored the stallion's annoyed whicker. He grabbed the girl - the princess, Sansa - by the chin and made her look at him. "You want us to travel north, with no destination in mind, because you think you need to? The queen will send more men, and if we avoid them, she'll send worse men. I can keep you safe for only so long when trying to lead them in circles to keep them off our arses."  
  
Sansa lifted a hand and gently tugged at his wrist; he let her move his hand from her face while she stared him straight in the eye - again. The princess could hold a gaze rather well for someone who probably had not met gazes in a long time. "I know it must seem a fruitless request. But I am the rightful heir - and you have allied yourself with me."  
  
"Bugger that, I took pity on you," Sandor snapped.  
  
The princess shook her head. "No. You hold no love for the Lannister queen, you made that much clear. You were doing this for your sister, but for whatever reason, whatever it is that the queen offered you regarding your sister, you chose me and my safety - or perhaps your own soul. Or maybe you realized that it was a lie. Whatever the reason, you changed sides. I will never forget that, and she will never forgive it.  
  
"I need you, Sandor Clegane. I cannot survive on my own, and I know less of what has become of my kingdom than I had thought. And whether you travel with me or not, you are also in danger." She sighed, staring off into the Wolfswood where the howls started to rise. "I cannot explain why I need to go north, but I do. Perhaps we must go north, and then east, to the coast."  
  
"And just wander around hoping to find the resistance fighters?"  
  
Sansa chewed her lip. She was not as certain as she wanted to seem, he could see it. "I have to go north," she repeated, though with less conviction this time.  
  
"Why, princess? If I have chosen your side and am your escort, I'd like to know why I'm escorting you deeper into the cold with only the wide, wild north for a destination?"  
  
"What if I don't trust you that much yet?"  
  
Sandor let out a harsh laugh and shook his head. He was more amused than frustrated by her words. "So you'll trust me to keep you safe, but not with your reasons for where we go?"  
  
"It is a little contradictory, isn't it?" The girl's fingers were toying with a loose thread on one of her sleeves. She sighed again. "If I say it, it will sound silly and foolish; if you laugh, or if I hear how silly it really sounds, I'll give up. I know I need to go there because of...because of faith. I didn't understand it at first, but I think...no, I _know_ I do now."  
  
Of course! She just knew! Because of some faith she couldn't explain to him, she magically knew where to go!  
  
Sandor's eyes closed, and he could feel the argument leaving him. He truly was a fool; but the girl had the right of it earlier. If he left her, he was a wanted man, if he stayed with her, he was a wanted man. So what did it matter if he went where she pointed instead of the other way around? He had taken pity on her for her sake, not his own. "All right, princess. After the village, we'll head straight north."  
  
The girl visibly slumped - in relief, he was guessing - and she smiled back at him. "The village and then north." She sounded tired, and she looked worse. It was a wonder she had kept her posture so long, including sitting in a way that her back did not touch his chest. And though she had not said anything, he knew she had to be hungry.  
  
That was when her stomach finally spoke up for her.  
  
"Here." Sandor reached into his saddlebag and pulled out a piece of bread and some hard cheese. "We still have a ways before we reach the village. Eat."  
  
"Oh, thank you!" the girl all exclaimed as she grabbed the food from his hand. Her cheeks reddened, he could barely tell in the dim light, and she thanked him again, more demurely this time. She still ate daintily, like the proper lady she was underneath all that dirt and grime. A proper lady, a princess, and barely more than a child; perhaps a year younger than Elinor had been when she had died. A half-starved, dirty, messy girl-child who knew little of how the world was those days.  
  
The rightful heir of Winterfell and the North.  
  
And he'd promised to keep her safe.  
  
 _You're a fool. A dead fool at that. Try not to let this one get butchered._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all reading this story and leaving kudos and comments, thank you so much! I hope you all continue to enjoy. :) We're getting to the point where this story diverges quite a bit from the source of inspiration, Snow White and the Huntsman. That movie will still have a lot of influence, but I don't want this to basically be that story told with ASOIAF characters. Hopefully I can do these characters and this idea proper justice. :) Feedback/concrit is always welcome!


	7. Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone interested, I posted an inspirational writing playlist for this fic on 8tracks (which actually did help me crank out the last part of this chapter and finally finish it up): http://8tracks.com/girlsarewolves/writing-utca

* * *

_I truly am the last Stark._  
  
In the dank, dim confines of Sansa's cell, everything had always seemed dreary and suffocating. For seven years she had felt as though she was being smothered by the gloom, by the stone walls that were supposed to keep her safe, not keep her trapped. In those dark days and darker nights, she had known; as she had fought to keep her wits about her, she had known.  
  
Yet outside of her cell, outside of Winterfell and in the endless maze of trees of the Wolfswood, the truth felt harsher and crueler still. Freedom - sunlight and cool winds and the feeling of damp ground beneath her feet, grass and bark and earth beneath her fingers - should have brought only gladness. A relief from her sorrows - but her only relief was her dreams, the same as when she had been trapped in her cell. It was folly to let the light and open air make her think any different.  
  
She had known her father was lost, and all her siblings. Robb slain before her eyes; the small, battered bodies of Arya and Bran and Rickon laying among all the other corpses. She had not even recognized them, their faces so bloodied and battered.  
  
She had all but forgotten her uncle Benjen, and for that Sansa felt shame mingle in with her grief. It had been so long since she had last seen him; he had not even come when the fever took her mother. Her father had told them that Benjen was First Ranger, and was likely on the other side of the wall, tracking and fighting off wildlings.  
  
 _I do not even remember what he looks like. Did he look much like Father? He must have. Dark hair and grey eyes and handsome and noble, yes. So much like Father, only younger._  
  
Had she wanted to go North because of her uncle, and not even realized it? When Sandor Clegane reminded her of her uncle and told her of Benjen's death, it had been a shock - a sharp, sudden pain in her chest as though something had struck her there. Maybe part of her had always remembered, in the back of her mind; maybe she had been clinging to that hope.  
  
 _Maybe I had not forgotten about him,_ Sansa tried to comfort herself. _Maybe I made myself not think on him; perhaps I hoped that Cersei did not know of him. If I thought of him, she might have known. She has magic, I heard them crying out in fear of her wicked magic that night. I saw the haggard girls they brought back to die in the cells. Even Sandor Clegane called her a witch. But she did know, she knew all along. And now even he is gone._  
  
Sansa refused to cry. She did not want to cry in front of Clegane; not again, not now. She was a princess - no, a queen. And Clegane was now her man. She needed to be strong and brave; like her mother had always taught her to be.  
  
It had been embarrassing and not very queenly when her stomach had rumbled so loudly she thought it might echo through the forest.  
  
Clegane had brought food with him, though, and had given her some bread and cheese to nibble on. He was a gruff, cranky man, to be sure, with his fearsome face and intense eyes. But he was hers now.  
  
 _Mine or not, he would still laugh if I told him I wanted to go north because of a white animal I glimpsed in the wood._ And that was something Sansa did not think she could take, not now, not after learning of Uncle Benjen or when she was so tired it took almost all her focus to remain seated upright in such an uncomfortable position - and in a way that kept space between their bodies. _If I am to be brave and strong, I cannot have my only man laughing at me already. Besides, I am the rightful queen, I don't have to tell him anything I don't want to._  
  
Perhaps Sansa was wrong or even a touch mad - after all the years locked away with her grief it could be true - but she felt in her bones that the white animal was a sign. The more she thought on it, the more convinced of that truth she became. It was a sign from the old gods; perhaps they would show her the way.  
  
 _The Lannister queen is from the South, and the Southern kingdoms all worshipped my lady mother's gods, the Seven. They did not honor the old gods. Father had said they did not honor their heart trees, did not revere the godswoods. The old gods, they want me to go North. I know it. They must have heard my prayers, and now they will help me._  
  
But explaining that to Sandor Clegane, who had come here with the Lannister queen, was not so easy. Sansa did not even know if he believed in any gods, let alone the old gods.  
  
 _He has agreed, that is what matters. I must go North; it is for the old gods, not my uncle. My poor uncle; did he know what became of Father? Did he die thinking that he was the last of us?_  
  
"Were you one of the men that went with the Lannister queen to the wall?" Sansa found herself asking. She took a small bite of the bread, having finished the hard cheese. She should not have asked that; what if he was? _What if the queen did not kill my uncle but ordered someone to? What if it was him?_  
  
Clegane shifted behind her. "Yes. I was there."  
  
Unable to help herself, Sansa found herself asking, "Did you kill him?"  
  
There was a pause, and for that horrible moment Sansa was terrified that she was sitting in front of her uncle's murderer. But then Clegane spoke, though his words offered little comfort. "No. Cersei has an executioner for such times as she wants to make a...queenly example. And that was never me. I did nothing but stand there and watch, ready to kill any man who tried to stop it."  
  
 _But you do not have his blood on your hands,_ she meant to say but held her tongue. Did it truly matter? He had been there. He had been ready to kill any of her uncle's black brothers should they try to defend him from a foreign queen. Had her uncle tried to kill the false queen before his death? Had he gone willingly and quietly? She dared not ask. She could not bear to know, not yet.  
  
"Are we near the village?"  
  
"Aye." Clegane said no more than that, and Sansa was not certain she wanted to try conversation again.  
  
It was enough that they had decided where to go, that Clegane had agreed to her orders and was a presence at her back. She had gone so long since feeling someone near, or hearing their breathing. His arms could not help touching hers as he held the reigns, and Sansa was not so cold in the darkness as she had been the night before.  
  
Jeyne Poole had been the last person she had been so close to for so long. It had been the end of the first year - they had worked together to mark the days and keep track of time - when the guards had finally come and taken her friend away. Jeyne had never returned, not even as an old, mindless crone.  
  
Even with Clegane so close, Sansa felt so very alone.

* * *

_"Did you kill him?"_  
  
The Stark princess' question stubbornly repeated over again in his head. It was smart of her to ask it; he had to give her credit for thinking of the possibility and more credit to her for asking.  
  
 _"Did you kill him?"_  
  
 _No, princess, I didn't kill him. I helped sack your home, kill your people. I was among the few that found your eldest brother and your maester. I dragged your brother off while another soldier slaughtered the old man, spilled his blood over the tiny corpses the two had been crying over. Delivered your brother to the queen. Might be I even helped kill one of your little brothers, or the little sister. There's plenty of blood on my hands. Might be there's Stark blood in there, but not your uncle's._  
  
Sandor kept that part to himself. He feared the girl would wail and fight him then. Perhaps the young princess would even order the villagers to slit his throat; she wanted to be queen, she could make him her first execution. He might have traded with some in the village before, but there was no fondness there.  
  
Better to keep the rest secret for now. Otherwise keeping the girl safe would become even more difficult. Yes, that was why; it certainly wasn't shame or guilt that held his tongue.  
  
Killing had come easy to him. Gregor had taught him early on - in actions more than words - that knights were killers. That survivors were killers. The stronger and bigger and meaner you were, the better your chances at surviving, at making a name for yourself, and therefore a place for yourself. In the queen's service, having a bad reputation was means for promotion.  
  
Elinor had tried to tell him life wasn't like that; didn't have to be like that. But she hadn't been the one shoved into the fire a child and dragged out a bitter man in a child's body. She hadn't been sent to the queen, to pledge life and loyalty, and expected to be good at getting your hands bloody. She'd known how to fight and how to kill - he had made sure of that first chance he'd gotten - but she had never liked it.  
  
 _Didn't teach her well enough though, did I?_ No. He'd failed her. Much like their father had failed him all those years ago.  
  
 _Seven hells, I need more to drink._ It was the girl's presence, he was sure of it. He hadn't thought of Elinor in nearly a year - except maybe on the nights when he got too drunk to remember them the next day. It had taken him almost two years to get past the nightmares; the memories replaying over and over in his sleep. He had drowned himself in wine. And without having duties to the queen, he'd had all the time in the world to get drunk. But his sister would invade even his foggiest moments, and her voice accompanied every pounding headache that came after.  
  
After the first two years, he stopped dreaming of her all the time, could go a few days without thinking about her. It came when he finally had been forced to find work; he'd taken to hunting for more than his own meals when he didn't feel like paying for more than wine. He would trade the meat and pelts; and the time and focus it took to hunt and skin and butcher would keep him busy.  
  
Distracted.  
  
But then buggering Jaime Lannister had found him, and brought him back to his bloody sister, and she'd sent him out after this girl. And now this girl was in his possession, only he was working for her; this princess with her messy hair and muddy clothes and proper posture.  
  
 _She doesn't look like much._ But there he was, escorting her to the village, and then north, who knew how far up before she pointed in another direction for him to go. If they hadn't been caught or killed by then. Cersei's probably already sent more men out by now. Can't stay at the village long.  
  
There were other villages though. But not many, not so close to the edge of the woods; he had learned that there were a few abandoned villages - deserted early on. When there had been a few smallfolk to escape the towns near Winterfell to give word and warning of Cersei's takeover. But they needn't have bothered, not so soon at least. The Wolfswood had a way of getting groups of men lost; the more men, the less chance any returned.  
  
There were too many damn wolves, among other things. And some men who had made it back, they had tried to tell Cersei of whispering winds and trees that seemed to be alive, that bled when you cut them.  
  
He remembered the look in Cersei's eyes, arrogance and contempt; how were those bloody fools to know what weirwoods were? She had destroyed the few remaining godswoods below the neck before most of them were born. She had enforced the Faith of the Seven with vehemence, forbidding mention of the old gods.  
  
Elinor had told him about the old gods once, when they were young. When they would share stories and dreams, and he had been a blind fool, thinking that his service to the queen would be so noble.  
  
Sandor scowled and took a chunk of bread for himself, gnawing on it to quiet his hunger and take his mind off unwelcome thoughts. He couldn't keep going back to the past; he had all but thrown it away for some uncertain future, for this skinny, dirty northerner. Personally, he wasn't so uncertain about his future - death seemed quite likely to come to him soon.  
  
Better to think of ways to avoid it and help the Stark girl find people who could offer her real protection then dwell on tree gods and childhood dreams.  
  
"Is that it? Those flames, are they the village lights?" The princess asked him, pointing ahead.  
  
The flicker of flames between trees and branches could be seen now, and he heard the quiet bustle of smallfolk in the distance.  
  
"That's it." He spurred Stranger into a quicker trot, eager to get a proper drink and more space between himself and the Stark girl. He imagined she wouldn't mind the extra discomfort the faster pace no doubt was giving her if it meant she could get down sooner. "Now don't go giving away your name, girl. These might have been your father's people, but fear and greed could motivate even the most loyal of subjects."  
  
A noise of protest escaped the girl, but then she huffed, quietly. "I was not going to go around announcing my identity, Clegane. I might not have received all the proper lessons a princess would learn, but I am not stupid, either."  
  
Clegane chuckled darkly; it was good to see glimpses of the princess' bite. "No disrespect, your highness," he told her, speaking quieter as the torch lights grew brighter and came into clear view. He had never been more grateful to see the meager town than he was at that moment. He dismounted and led Stranger the rest of the way by foot.  
  
Sansa, for her part, looked like a curious mix of nobility and wildchild. She held herself like a princess, and he almost gave her a pinch to try to make her loosen her posture but decided against it. She carried herself like royalty, but she was filthier than a sheep herder, her clothes tattered rags that looked like they had belonged to a few maidservants before her.  
  
The villagers would not suspect this tall, gangly girl to be their dead princess.  
  
"I wish to dismount," the girl whispered, leaning over Stranger's neck to speak in hushed tones.  
  
Sandor sighed and came to a stop, calming his horse down. The courser whickered in what Sandor was fairly confident was annoyance at the girl leaning over him, her cheek against his ear. He gave the horse's neck a gentle pat. "Easy, boy. She's off you now."  
  
Sansa smoothed her clothes and hair as she stepped closer. Her movements were stiff, though, and she grimaced with each one it seemed. The expression on her face at his comments could be best described as sour. She did not acknowledge them otherwise. "Where to now that we're here?"  
  
The smallfolk that were out regarded them warily, whispering amongst themselves. A few appeared to recognize him, but most kept their distance. Many eyed the Stark girl, studying her intently; they might not realize who she was, but they would still notice her smooth, youthful face even under all the dirt.  
  
Leaning over in such a way as to obscure her from view, Sandor spoke into the girl's ear. "Keep your head bowed. Do not brush your hair back from your face. Until we know that none here are devoutly loyal to the queen, you're in danger. There's a reward for young, pretty things like you."  
  
The girl did not argue; in fact, there was a brief flash of understanding in her widened eyes. She lowered her head and rustled her hair again, trying to discreetly pull it down to hide her face. "Lead," she said.  
  
It was a curious thing to hear. Sandor didn't lead, except for his horse. But he placed a hand on the princess' shoulder and guided her towards the pitiful excuse of a tavern the village still had, with the meager stables and only two rooms for guests.  
  
"We'll buy a stable and a room for the night. In the morning we can buy what we'll need to get to the next village, and maybe glean some knowledge on what awaits us north. Besides the bloody cold and snow."  
  
The girl laughed - soft and short, and he was certain it was the first time he had heard such a sound from her. It was a pleasant sound, especially compared to pleading and sniffles. Even she seemed surprised to hear the noise.  
  
 _Likely had forgotten what it was to laugh._  
  
Clegane took a dagger from his person and pressed it into her hands. "Keep this hidden unless you need it, and wait here with my horse. You scream my name if someone gives you trouble. I'll buy us a room."  
  
" _One_ room? Do they not have another?" There was a look of such mortification on her face now that Clegane nearly laughed. She was a proper girl still, but propriety would simply have to be sacrificed for the sake of his limited funds.  
  
"I'll not be taking a peak at you, girl, but despite your birth, you have no coin. I have only so much. You had best prepare yourself to make do."  
  
The look of horror was still in place, but she reluctantly gave him a nod.  
  
He handed the reins over, and she took them with one hand, the other hiding the dagger amidst the material of her skirt. He gave Stranger another pat on the neck. "Behave," he barked at the horse and, giving those who were looking in his or the girl's direction an ugly glare, made his way into the tavern.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY! I have finally updated! I want to apologize for how long it's taken me. I want to also apologize because I honestly don't know how long it'll be before the next chapter but I am hoping it won't be half as long as the wait for this one. To be honest, my unhappiness with the show and an interest in different fandoms (most of which were not fantasy or medieval) played a big part in how long it's taken. I just wasn't in the right mindset for something with this kind of setting. While I'm still more into other fandoms currently, I'm hoping to work on being more successful at setting aside times to work on this story.
> 
> MANY THANKS TO THOSE YOU HAVE LEFT KUDOS, COMMENTS, FAVORITED, SUBSCRIBED, ETC.! THANK YOU FOR THE CONTINUED INTEREST AND PATIENCE! My apologies for not much really happening in this, but there's going to be a lot of character development and interaction more than plot for the next few chapters, I think. I hope that the flow and rhythm is still there, though, even after all this time. Feedback is greatly appreciated, and again, so many thanks for all the feedback on this fic so far!


	8. Eight

* * *

Pale moonlight lit up the snow-covered ground like a blanket of sparkling white, pristine and perfect; untouched, untainted. All around her was white - was _winter,_ from the clearing she was standing in to the frozen, snow-covered trees in the distance - and above there was nothing but darkness broken only by the silvery fullness of the moon and glittering stars.  
  
The cold was bone-deep, though this was not the cruel, damp coolness of her cell; heavy with the threat of sickness, oppressive like the stone walls trapping her. Nor was it the gentle, fleeting chill of summer snows. It was the true cold of a Northern winter, the one she had been praying for for so, so long. It was the cold of short days spent sneaking away from Septa Mordane to play with her siblings or with Jeyne, and of long nights spent bundled by the hearth while listening to Old Nan's stories or even prying one from Father.

It was a welcome cold that made her feel like herself again. In truth, Sansa could not recall the last time she had felt so alive, so renewed.  
  
 _Bran and Arya and I used to play in the snow, and Robb would play with us, too, when he could._ Sansa remembered snow fights and white fortresses, building castles that little Rickon would rush to stomp down. But then spring would always come, with lighter snowfalls that might become gentle rains, and flowers would bloom, and more songbirds would sing. _I used to love spring._  
  
But spring meant the end of winter. The last spring had signaled the end of winter for years to come, though it had brought with it another kind of bleakness to the land. If only she could have known; "I would trade every spring for winter to have never ended."  
  
"Are you so certain? Don't you remember the story of the Long Night?" Bran's voice came from beside, and Sansa turned towards her brother.  
  
How was her brother here? Sansa blinked and then realized, she did not even know how she came to be here. She simply was. And now, so to was Bran; or at least, she thought it was Bran. He looked older, and taller - taller than Arya had been last Sansa saw her sister.  
  
"Out of the Long Night came the Others," another voice, from her other side, and Sansa moved to see her sister, taller too, though still shorter than Sansa and Bran. "They came with their giant ice spiders, and raised the dead as wights to obey their commands." Arya looked at Sansa, her face hardened with age and sorrow. "I miss Old Nan's stories."  
  
 _I do, too,_ Sansa wanted to say. _I miss Old Nan. I miss you, I miss both of you._ The words would not come; they seemed to freeze on her lips.  
  
"Sansa, do you remember the ones she told us about the war of the First Men and the Children of the Forest?" Bran asked, and when he did, the white blanket surrounding them went up in flames, until only blackened ash remained. "Do you ever wonder if they weren't only stories?"  
  
The fire was everywhere, the heat of it stifling, the black smoke suffocating. Sansa reached for her brother and sister, desperately trying to hold onto them; _I cannot lose you again!_ But her hands grabbed onto nothing save smoke and the lick of flames as the fire went from orange to green, a horrifying green - and then the cold was back, but it was icy and sharp, like knives slicing through her as the flames were snuffed out.  
  
And all around her was nothing, everything destroyed by the fire and the frost.  
  
 _Arya!_ she tried to scream, her voice still stuck in her throat. _Bran!_ But they, too, were gone, lost to the nothingness, the darkness.  
  
'Frost to fire and fire to frost,' a voice seemed to whisper from the darkness, as though carried on the wind. It sounded both young and old at the same time; like words from a song yet also the shattering of ice. 'Frost to fire and fire to frost,' it repeated.  
  
And then from the darkness, ethereal blue eyes, staring straight at her.  
  
Then, only then, was Sansa able to scream.

* * *

Clegane jerked awake to the sound of a girl screaming. Elinor? his gut clenched, and he remembered; no, not his sister. His sister was long dead.  
  
The princess.  
  
Had someone gotten into the room? He'd barred and blocked the door, and there was only one window, barely large enough for a small child to slip through. No, he would have heard; his sleep had been light and uneasy, his mind unable to shake the thought that Cersei had already sent men after them - had sent his bloody brother after them. An intruder would have woken him.  
  
Bad dream, he realized. And why not? The girl had only days ago escaped from her home turned into a prison. He wasn't the only one in the room with plenty to plague his sleep.  
  
Fumbling around in the dark towards the girl's whimpering, his eyes were still adjusting and nearly missed one arm flailing in his direction. He only just managed to catch it before she slapped him across the face, and then he reached for her other arm and gave the princess a shake, trying to keep from being too rough.  
  
"Wake up, you're only dreaming!" he hissed.  
  
A softer, startled cry left the girl, and judging by the way she stilled and then tensed, the Stark princess had finally woken.  
  
Sandor let go quickly so as not to frighten her more. "You were only dreaming, girl. It's over now. And hopefully the whole town isn't awake now, either." Clegane let out a heavy sigh and sat down with some distance between them so as not to spook the girl more. He waited to return to his corner though, some part of him he long thought dead hesitating to let her be before he knew she was well enough to go back to sleep.

After all, he knew quite intimately that 'only' dreaming could leave plenty of damage in its wake.  
  
"I...yes...of course." She sounded out of breath and confused, as thought still gathering her bearings and not wholly convinced she was awake - or perhaps still realizing it had been a dream and not real. "Forgive me, I did not mean to wake you."  
  
Clegane snorted. "I don't need your apologies, girl, especially for things you've no need to apologize for."  
  
His eyes now adjusted to the meager light in the room, he was able to make out the movement of her head bobbing. "You can go back to sleep, I am, I am all right now," she said; a blatant lie based on the way her voice still trembled. Or perhaps she was nervous at how close he was.  
  
Some part of him was tempted to stay there and continue to make her uncomfortable, some part of him that was mean and cruel because the world was mean and cruel, and why hadn't this girl learned yet that if you show weakness you get hurt? But the want only served to make him uncomfortable, too, and he shifted, scooting back a little ways farther from her. He'd woken crying from bad dreams before as well, though only his sister had ever known the fact.  
  
"You know I used to be the queen's Hound. And a hound can smell a lie, though anyone would sniff yours out," he told her, voice harsher than he'd meant it to be.  
  
The Stark girl slowly sat up; she was mostly an outline in the dark. If he squinted, he could better make out her movements. She pulled her knees to her chest, tugged closer the worn, scratchy blanket of the cot. "I dreamt of my sister and one of my brothers. And the - and other things. Horrible things."  
  
"Your head can be your worst enemy," he heard himself say, and cursed silently; he blamed the honesty on the hour, and fresh thoughts of Elinor.  
  
The girl looked at him in the darkness; he could feel her gaze more than he could see it. "Do you ever dream of your sister?"  
  
Clegane shifted and nearly spat another curse outloud, this time at the girl. He did not want to talk about Elinor, or his dreams, or himself at all. He did not want to talk about things that made him feel...weak. Like he was still a shaking child same as the princess. "Go back to sleep, girl."  
  
"I don't think I can."  
  
" _Try_ ," he all but growled.  
  
She said nothing, nor did she move, and Clegane was tempted to approach her in the hopes that it would frighten her into laying back down. There was a rustling sound, though, and at last the girl settled back down on the cot.  
  
"Do you know the stories of the Others?" the princess' voice again broke the silence, no longer trembling, but soft, hushed, her breathing hitching before the word 'others'.  
  
"The others?" It seemed a rather vague question, yet it he found it sounded familiar. Perhaps one of the many stories he and his sister had shared before his brother had burned all those stories and songs out of him.  
  
"The White Walkers, who bring the dark and the cold." She laid on her side, facing him. Her face was hidden in the darkness, and there was a touch of fear in her voice. Did she believe in these Others, these White Walkers? "They came once, long ago, before the Andals ever tried to claim the North from the First Men. It was during the coldest, longest winter. The cruelest, too, when eventually night fell and remained. The Long Night. That's when the Others came."  
  
It surprised Clegane that he found himself enjoying listening to the girl spin her tale in her quiet, convicted whispers. He found the story to be nonsense, to be sure, but she was so full of belief, her voice oddly...comforting and familiar. Or perhaps similar was the better choice of word.  
  
"Old Nan told us about them. She said they came on dead, frozen horses, brought with them giant ice spiders, and armies of wights - fallen men and women whom they had killed and brought back under their thrall. They wielded weapons made only of ice and magic. The Children of the Forest and the First Men banded together to defeat them, and erected the Wall to keep them out. To keep them trapped in their home of endless winter."  
  
Now he remembered - the legends of the Wall. The tales he'd heard were not quite so elaborate or fantastical; Cersei was not very tolerant of stories that related to any magic or powers other than her own or the Faith of the Seven.  
  
"And were they those 'other things' you dreamt about?"  
  
Sansa fell silent for a moment. "Yes. I think. My brother and my sister reminded me of the Long Night and the Others. And then there was this horrible cold, and all these blue, frozen eyes staring at me from the dark."  
  
"That's all they are, girl. Dreams. Wild imaginings spread as history to explain what is no longer wholly remembered. The only magic you need fear is from that witch who dwells in your home," the Hound reminded her, perhaps a little cruelly.  
  
"I had not forgotten," she replied curtly, and rolled away from him until he saw only the back of her, his eyes adjusted enough to almost make out a hint of the red of her hair.  
  
Clegane sighed. "Get some sleep. I'll stay awake, keep guard for any intruders, whatever they might be."  
  
"...And wake me if I start dreaming again?"  
  
"Aye. I'll wake you if you dream again."  
  
A pause, and then, "Thank you, Clegane."  
  
Sandor said nothing else. He listened to the rhythm of her breathing until, some time later, she finally drifted back to sleep.  
  
He grabbed his wineskin and took a long drink from it. Might as well enjoy it while he could; he could hardly afford to be drunk tomorrow, when they were once again on the run from Cersei. Besides, he was in dire need of the drink. His head was full of thoughts he did not want; memories of Elinor, both good and terrible, memories of when he was in active service to the bloody golden Lannisters, memories of Gregor's hands holding him down while he felt as though his entire head would melt and burst.  
  
 _What in the seven hells am I doing?_ he asked himself yet again. He'd lost track of how many times he'd asked that question.  
  
 _Taking the 'rightful queen' to some unknown destination up north. Trying to keep her alive, keep her safe. Listening to her fearful ramblings of imaginary monsters._  
  
He could have simply gagged the girl and taken her back to Winterfell, back to Cersei. Maybe she would have let him kill Gregor before she laughed at him for ever believing she could bring his sister back from the dead. _More likely she would have Gregor there with her, waiting for me to return so he could kill me instead._ As if she would ever let him live once he knew she'd tricked him, manipulated him, used Elinor's memory to make him bring another girl to her doom. Nor would she want to risk him spreading the word of the Stark girl; as though telling the smallfolk that their princess hadn't died all those years ago but was now dead would stir them up.  
  
But Cersei was nothing if not paranoid.  
  
So why then had she kept the princess alive? And why was it so important he bring the girl back alive?  
  
Sandor found himself wondering that question fairly often now, too. He wondered just what it was that Cersei had intended to do; she killed girls, took their youth and beauty, but keeping Sansa Stark until she was pretty enough seemed risky. Cersei's vanity generally did not outweigh her mad possessiveness of her power. And using her to bring back Elinor had been nothing but horseshit, he knew that; so why so much emphasis on him returning the girl alive? That was likely why she had bribed him to come back to her services instead of simply sending Gregor out after Sansa; she needed the Stark girl _living_.  
  
He took another drink from the wineskin and tried not to dwell on thoughts of Cersei Lannister - or his brother - anymore. He was far from superstitious, but he knew she was capable of many things, and he had never quite shaken the feeling that thinking on her drew her attention.  
  
That was not what they needed, not when they were still too bloody close, and surrounded by people who might sell out the girl who should be their queen if it meant earning mercy from the witch lording over them now.  
  
He down the last of his wine and settled back in the corner of the room that gave him the best view of the cot, the door, and the window. Tomorrow he would get them whatever supplies he could, and get the Stark princess farther away from Cersei's grasp. That was one thing he would grant the girl's vague directions; though Cersei had placed her own men on the wall, her reach was still stretched thin so far up north.  
  
But that would only work in their favor for so long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So to those of you still here - I AM SO SORRY IT HAS TAKEN ME SO LONG. This fic is one I am really struggling with, and the fact that I've sworn off Game of Thrones but it still continues to piss me off, and also that there has been little news on TWOW has not helped. The past year has also just been kind of crazy for me, so when I did write, it was almost all one-shots that required a lot less work, to be honest. But! I am getting adjusted to my new job and enjoying the feeling of semi-stable income and security, and I truly feel like this desire and ability to focus on and write this fic will stick around a little longer. 
> 
> So I hope you all enjoy this chapter! I greatly appreciate all the feedback I've gotten, and feedback definitely helps me stick with it! *cough*hint*cough* I am so thankful to those of you still here, and I hope you will continue to bear with me. This fic is going to take a while yet, but I promise, I will not abandon it! So thank you all again, and hopefully you'll be seeing another update from me sometime in February! (I'm hoping before February, but can't promise anything before then.)
> 
> P.S. I'm trying to respond to each comment individually, and even going back to past comments that I did not reply to. I might miss some here and there, so I apologize! But know that I read and appreciate and basically geek out/squee over every single one! So I'm trying to keep up with them now, because I love hearing from all of you, and it really, truly helps! :D

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Snarling Dragons and Singing Birds](https://archiveofourown.org/works/851365) by [writingramblr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingramblr/pseuds/writingramblr)




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